HENPAN 

•      :  , 


MARY  TAYLOR 
THORNTON 


7 


When  Pan  Pipes 

Mary  Taylor  Thornton 


When  Pan  Pipes 

A  Fantastic  Romance 


By 

MARY  TAYLOR  THORNTON 


New   York 
George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  V  rate  A  States  of  America 


To  My  Dear  Ones, 
Here  and  Elsewhere 


2138610   ' 


• 


Contents 

Part  One:     Cloudesley 

CHAPTEB  PAOK 

I.    Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland ,     .     .  n 

II.    The  Witch's  Cottage 24 

III.  Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  but  Loses  the  Brownie  Fairy  41 

IV.  How  Jerry  Found  and  Lost  a  Good  Fairy  ...  60 

V.  Which  Introduces  a  Lord,  a  Lady,  a  Fairy  God- 
mother, a  Priest,  and  a  Minister,  and  also  Tells 
of  a  Letter 79 

VI.  The  Goose-girl,  the  Swineherd,  a  Fairy  God- 
mother, and  a  Knight 98 

VII.    Tells  of  How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy,  and 

of  what  was  in  the  Pedlar's  Pack    .     .     .     .118 

VIII.    A  Kiss  for  the  Goose-girl,  a  Master  for  the  Witch, 

and  a  Prison  for  the  Fairy 134 

IX.     Of  some  Odds  and  Ends  which  Piece  the  Story 

Together 157 

X.    The  Minister  Comes  to  the  Cottage  and  the  Knight 

Rides  Away 166 

XL  How  the  Goose-girl  climbed  a  Ladder,  how  the 
Fairy  Godmother  made  the  Swineherd  an 
Offer,  and  why  He  Rejected  it 179 

XII.    The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  and  Lets  Jerry  Out 

of  the  Cage      ......    v     ....  193 


viii  Contents 

Part  Two:    London 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Jhe  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune 211 

II.  The  Swineherd  no  longer  a  Swineherd.  How  the 
Black  Knight  Steps  into  the  Story,  and  the 
White  Knight  Seeks  the  Goose-girl,  and  of 
Other  Things 232 

III.  Which   Tells  of  the  Goose-girl  and  the  White 

Knight,  and  How  the  Black  Knight  Fought  and 
was  Vanquished 244 

IV.  How  the  Black  Knight  Fought  the  White  Knight 

and  was  Vanquished;  and  How  the  Goose-girl 
Cried  for  the  Moon 264 

V.    A  Bargain  with  Toby 282 

VI.     How  the  Castle  of  the  Black  Knight  Grew,  and 

How  Jerry  Found  a  Fairy 301 

VII.    Of   the   Building   of   a   Castle;    and   How  the 

Brownie  Fairy  Came  Home 314 

VIII.    Jerry  and  the  Brownie  Fairy  Start  on  a  Quest   .  327 
IX.    Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows 345 

X.    In  Which  Shadows  are  Scattered  and  Dreams  Be^ 

come  Realities 361 

XL    In  Which  the  Goose-girl  Borrows  a  Silver  Gown  379 
XII.    And  the  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own     .     .     .  396 


Part  One:     Cloudesley 


When  Pan  Pipes 

Part  One:    Cloudesley 


CHAPTER  I 

JEREMY  GOES  TO  FAIRYLAND 

JEREMY  lay  quietly.  The  white  counterpane  moved  up  and 
down  with  each  long-drawn  breath,  the  white  dimity  cur- 
tains fluttered  drowsily  as  the  gentle  summer  breeze  stole  in. 
From  outside  came  scents  and  sounds  telling  of  flowers  and 
fields,  of  farmyards  and  stables.  Presently  the  dying  man 
raised  himself ;  his  gaze  wandered  longingly  through  the  little 
casement  window  to  meadows  and  woods  stretching  far  away 
to  the  distant  horizon,  where,  caught  in  the  sun's  burning  em- 
brace, they  mingled  and  were  lost  in  a  haze  of  heat.  The 
wistful  look  rested  for  a  time  on  the  beautiful  scene,  then  wan- 
dered idly  back,  back  to  the  small  room,  to  the  medley  of  can- 
vases and  easels,  of  plaster  casts,  clay  images,  finished  and 
unfinished,  brushes,  modelling  tools,  and  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  an  artist's  studio.  Yet,  in  them  there  was  something  differ- 
ent from  the  ordinary  workshop.  The  canvases  packed  closely 
together,  the  folded  easel,  the  tidy  arrangement  of  odds  and 
ends,  told  their  own  tale.  Never  again  would  their  owner 
disarrange  them,  and  Jeremy  sighed  as  his  gaze  travelled  on. 
This  time  it  rested  lovingly  on  a  group  of  figures  carved  in 
purest  white  marble. 

It  represented  Pan,  seated  on  a  bank  of  deep  bracken,  pip- 
ing to   fairies   and  goblins   who   danced  around  him.     The 

11 


12  When  Pan  Pipes 

god,  with  his  goat  legs  crossed  and  his  long  ears  pricked, 
wore  the  usual  cruel,  satyr-like  expression,  but  with  it  went 
a  look,  half  merry,  half  wistful  and  wholly  gentle.  It  would 
have  been  a  puzzle  to  anyone  to  say  which  predominated. 
The  artist  himself  was  wont  to  declare  that  it  depended  upon 
the  mood  of  the  observer,  and  that  only  he  himself  saw  both 
sides. 

In  the  noontide  glare,  the  figures  stood  out  life-like,  yet 
only  as  figures  carved  in  stone.  But  there  were  times  when 
the  winter  firelight  played  on  them,  or  the  harvest  moon 
peeped  in  at  the  window  and  turned  the  marble  to  a  purer 
whiteness,  and  Jeremy  saw  them  come  to  life,  these  creatures 
of  his  imagining,  when  Pan's  pipe  played  a  mystical  merry 
air,  when  the  mossy  banks  sent  out  a  perfume  of  meadow- 
sweet and  new  mown  hay,  when  the  forget-me-nots  by  the 
enchanted  pool  glowed  deeply  blue,  when  fairies  tripped 
lightly,  and  fauns  and  satyrs  stepped  clumsily  round,  keeping 
time  to  the  magic  music  and  beckoning  the  sick  man  to  come 
out  to  the  moonlit  glade,  where  Nature  held  high  revels. 

But  no  more  would  they  call — never  again — and  Jeremy 
turned  his  head  away  with  a  sigh.  His  eyes  rested  on  a 
small,  solemn-faced  boy  sitting  on  the  bed,  very  busily  en- 
gaged with  a  piece  of  clay,  twisting  and  turning  it  with  fat 
dimpled  fingers,  and  wholly  absorbed  in  his  task.  Jeremy's 
hand  stroked  a  chubby  leg  lovingly. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Jerry  boy  ?" 

Without  looking  up  the  small  one  answered,  "Making  a 
horse,  daddy." 

Jeremy  smiled,  then  sighed  again,  and  thoughtfully  gazed 
at  the  long  thin  fingers,  contrasting  in  their  whiteness  with 
the  brown,  firm  skin  they  touched.  Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"Jerry  boy,  when  I've  gone  away,  will  you  try  and  remem- 
ber me?  Will  you  try  to  think  what  I  looked  like,  how  I 
spoke,  and  all  that  I  said  to  you  ?  And  will  you  remember  how 
I  loved  you  ?  Ah,  Jerry  boy,  how  I  loved  you !  Will  you  try, 
sonnie?  Promise  me." 


Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland  13 

The  child  paused  in  his  work,  lifted  serious  brown  eyes  and 
nodded  gravely. 

"I  promise,  daddy."  Then,  as  though  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought,  "Are  you  going  away,  daddy?" 

"Yes,  Jerry." 

The  scarlet  lips  drooped  piteously;  into  the  round  brown 
eyes  came  presently  a  mistiness,  changing,  as  the  sense  of 
the  words  fully  dawned,  to  big  tears.  Slowly  they  welled 
up,  brimmed  over  and  fell.  Dropping  the  piece  of  sticky  clay, 
Jerry  crept  close. 

"Daddy,  daddy,  don't  go,  don't  leave  Jerry." 

The  encircling  arms  drew  him  closer — closer. 

"Jerry,  old  man,  don't  cry.  Daddy  must  go ;  but  you'll  have 
Margery,  you  know.  You  love  Margie." 

"Don't  want  Margie — I  want  my  daddy." 

"Oh,  Jerry  boy,  it's  hard,  so  hard.  But  you  must  be  good. 
Jerry,  be  good  always.  Never  forget;  and  sometime — some- 
time— you'll  come  and  find  me." 

"Shall  I?"  The  brown  eyes,  so  full  of  trouble,  brightened 
a  little.  "Where's  you  going,  daddy?" 

Jeremy  smiled  and  kissed  the  broad,  white  forehead. 

"Jerry,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something;  try  to  remember 
what  daddy  tells  you.  Once,  Jerry,  long  ago,  ah,  so  long 
ago  it  seems  to  me,  before  you  came  at  all,  I  was  ill  and 
tired,  Jerry,  and  so  miserable.  Everything  went  wrong.  I 
had  no  little  boy  to  love  or  to  love  me,  and  I  was  very  lonely. 
Then,  do  you  know,  Jerry,  suddenly  I  turned  a  corner,  and — 
what  do  you  think  I  found  ?" 

"A  fairy,"  answered  Jerry  promptly. 

"Yes,  a  fairy,  all  in  white.  And  she  smiled  at  me,  and 
at  once  everything  seemed  right.  There  was  the  beautiful 
warm  sun  shining,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue,  and  a  little  lark 
went  singing,  singing,  away  and  away.  Then  the  fairy  took 
my  hand,  Jerry,  and  I  felt  so  strong,  I  could  do  just  any- 
thing in  the  world.  So  I  asked  the  fairy  if  she  would  stay 
with  me  and  help  me  always." 


14  When  Pan  Pipes 

"And  did  she?"  asked  Jerry  eagerly. 

Jeremy  nodded.  "Yes.  She  came  with  me  and  lived  with 
me,  and  gave  me  everything  I  wanted.  Jerry,  she  gave  me— 
what  do  you  think?" 

"I  dunno."    The  voice  was  tense  with  interest. 

"Well,  one  day  she  gave  me  a  little  warm  bundle,  all  wrapped 
in  a  shawl,  and  when  I  opened  the  shawl  and  peeped  in  it  was 
— you." 

"Was  it?" 

"Yes.  And  then,  Jerry,  very  soon  after,  the  fairy  told 
me  that  she  had  to  leave  me,  just  as  I'm  telling  you  that 
I  must  go.  She  said  they  had  only  lent  her  for  a  little 
while.  But  I  knew  that  they  couldn't  spare  her  any  longer, 
for,  Jerry,  she  was  the  loveliest  fairy  that  ever  came  out  of 
fairyland,  and  she  loved  me  so  very  much — and  just  as  she 
loved  me,  she  loved  you.  And  so,  she  went  away.  Yet 
soon,"  the  voice  died  almost  to  a  whisper,  "soon  I  shall  see 
her,  my  dearest,  my  dearest — very  soon  now." 
.  Jerry  raised  his  head ;  a  new  thought  had  struck  him. 

"Daddy,  are  you  going  to  find  the  fairy?" 

"Yes,  Jerry." 

"Are  you  going  to  fairyland?" 

Jeremy  paused.  His  glance  wandered  from  the  child  to 
the  figure  of  the  god. 

"What's  in  a  name?"  he  murmured.  "Heaven,  Walhalla, 
fairyland — it's  all  the  same.  Yes,  sonnie,"  he  turned  again, 
"I'm  going  to  fairyland,  and  I  shall  find  the  fairy,  never  fear. 
Wherever  she  is,  wherever  I  go — I  shall  find  her." 

Jerry  nodded,  then  cuddled  down  again. 

"Will  you  bring  the  fairy  to  see  me,  daddy?" 

"No,  Jerry.  They  won't  let  us  out  of  fairyland,  once  they 
get  us." 

"Won't  they?" 

The  tears  began  to  gather  afresh,  and  Jeremy  hastened  to 
repair  the  error. 

"But,  Jerry,  though  you  can't  see  the  fairy,  though  they 


Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland  15 

won't  let  her  come  through  the  curtain  which  hangs  between 
us  and  fairyland,  she's  always  near,  always  looking  after  us. 
And^  when  I  go  through  the  curtain,  I,  too,  shall  always  be 
near  you,  so  near  that  sometimes  you'll  hear  my  voice.  And 
some  day,  Jerry,  when  you  are  a  big,  grown-up  man,  if  you 
are  good,  and  always  try  to  help  people,  you'll  turn  a  corner, 
and  you'll  find  a  fairy,  I  hope,  all  in  white,  with  a  little  hand 
stretched  out  to  take  yours.  But  you  must  be  sure  it's  the 
right  fairy,  because  there  are  lots  of  imitation  fairies  in  the 
world." 

"Are  there,  daddy?" 

"Yes,  Jerry.  And  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  to  know  her  by; 
her  name  must  begin  with  an  M.  All  good  fairies'  names 
begin  with  an  M.  There's  Mollie  and  Meg;  they're  gay, 
laughing  fairies,  who'll  lead  you  through  a  world  of  mirth. 
Then  there's  Martha  and  Matilda;  they're  brownie  fairies, 
who  sew,  and  cook,  and  make  the  world  a  home.  Mar- 
garet and  Maud  are  tall  and  queenly,  and — I'll  whisper  it, 
Jerry — sometimes  we're  just  a  little  wee  bit  afraid  of  them. 
But,"  the  laughing  voice  grew  soft,  "there's  one  name;  the 
best  of  all,  and  it  belongs  to  a  fairy — ah,  Jerry,  such  a  fairy. 
I  can't  describe  her;  she  is  beautiful,  though,  maybe,  not  as 
the  world  sees  beauty.  She  is  gentle,  pure,  loving;  gay  when 
you  are  gay,  sad  when  you  are  sad,  yet  with  a  sadness  which 
comforts.  She  is  quiet,  like  a  little  soft  mouse,  yet  never 
dull.  Busy,  like  a  little  brown  bee,  yet  always  ready  to  listen. 
Her  voice,  like  a  little  singing  cricket's,  tells  of  home  and 
bright  fires  and  warm  comforts.  Her  tiny  feet,  like  a  bird's, 
run  up  and  down,  here  and  there,  for  everyone.  Her  pretty 
hands,  not  always  white,  flash  like  a  swallow's  wing  as  they 
do  their  work.  And  she's  soft  and  warm,  Jerry,  like  a  little 
kitten,  and  her  eyes  are  deep,  dark  pools,  and  her  lips  are  like 
crimson  berries,  and  her  name  is  the  most  beautiful  name  in 
the  world,  for  it  means  all  that  is  holy,  all  that  is  divine.  It 
is — Mary." 

"Oh — "  the  voice  was  slightly  mystified.    Jeremy  had  flown 


16  When  Pan  Pipes 

higher  than  the  child  could  follow,  though  he  grasped  the  main 
idea. 

"Daddy — "  after  a  short  pause,  "what  do  witches'  names 
begin  with?" 

Jerry  laughed.  If  he  had  not  bargained  for  the  question, 
he  was  ready. 

"H.,  Jerry,  H.  Helle,  Hecate— Hebe,  Helen;  though  they 
were  witches  of  another  sort.  You'll  know  some  day." 

Jerry  sat  quite  still,  thinking  it  over.  Jeremy  watched  him 
lovingly.  Presently  the  eyelids  drooped ;  the  child  crept  closer, 
burrowing  a  warm  dark  head  among  the  pillows. 

"I'm  tired,  daddy." 

Jeremy  drew  him  near,  looking  down  with  a  tender,  wistful 
smile  at  the  drowsy  brown  eyes,  and  the  curling  eyelashes 
lying  against  a  soft  brown  cheek.  In  a  few  minutes  there 
was  silence,  only  broken  by  the  sick  man's  heavy  breathing, 
and  the  low,  gentle  murmur  of  a  sleeping  child. 

The  drowsy  summer  morning  droned  on.  Shadows  of 
trees  grew  short  and  shorter;  birds  twittered  idly;  a  cock 
crowed  a  lazy  crow  in  the  distance.  From  far  off  came 
the  sound  of  scythes,  the  hum  of  workers.  Monthly  roses 
on  the  walls  pushed  their  inquisitive  pink  faces  round  the 
window,  the  breath  of  summer  crept  in,  stirring  Jerry's  dark 
curls,  moist  with  heat,  bringing  to  Jeremy  memories  of  by- 
gone days,  of  happy  hours  when  Pan  piped  and  fairies  danced ; 
when  all  the  world  was  young  and  gay,  and  life  was  some- 
times a  dragon  to  be  conquered,  sometimes  a  syren  to  be 
wooed,  sometimes  a  mocking,  laughing  nymph,  who  beck- 
oned and  gave  chase,  yet  was  always  just  a  little  ahead.  And 
Pan  kept  his  goat  legs  hidden  in  deep  grasses  and  mossy  banks, 
while  fauns  and  satyrs  lurked  unseen  behind  trees,  and  over 
all  hung  enchantment  like  a  hazy,  golden  mist;  the  enchant- 
ment, the  magic  of  youth. 

There  was  a  little  stir  on  the  flagged  path  below.  Girlish 
voices,  hushed  because  of  the  sick  man  above,  made  a  soft 
sound,  broken  ever  and  anon  by  a  ripple  of  uncontrollable 


Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland  17 

laughter.  And  again  Jeremy  smiled.  Long  ago,  before  Art 
called  him,  he,  too,  had  worked  beneath  the  dear  summer 
sun,  had  listened  to  the  melodious  song  of  the  scythes  as  they 
swung  to  and  fro,  flashing  silver  in  the  fierce  light  which  drank 
up  all  color,  turning  things  to  shadowy  white  and  brown. 
How  he  had  listened  for  the  church  clock  striking,  the  laugh- 
ing voices  of  maids  in  fresh  print  frocks  and  sunbonnets,  who 
brought  the  "elevenses" — mugs  of  home  brewed  ale,  cakes  of 
spicy,  curranty  bread  new  baked.  How  it  came  back — the 
glory  of  work,  the  joy  of  life;  and  as  the  voices  receded  in 
the  distance,  the  drone  of  summer  again  fell  unbroken. 

The  maids  returned ;  Jeremy's  thoughts  grew  longer,  further 
apart.  Jerry's  gentler  breathing  mingled  with  them.  Fairies, 
flowers,  art,  nature,  jumbled  and  jostled  each  other  in  a  con- 
fused medley,  then  the  door  handle  turned  softly. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  the  door  opened,  and  a  little  woman 
peeped  round  it — a  little,  smiling,  round-faced,  apple-cheeked 
woman,  dressed  in  brown  linsey,  with  a  white  fichu  and  mob 
cap,  and  hands  wrinkled  and  gnarled  with  work,  yet  with 
a  look  in  them  that  made  you  long  to  take  them  in  yours, 
and  kiss  the  dear  fingers  which  had  worked  for  everyone 
all  their  days.  She  tip-toed  across  the  snow-white  boards, 
across  the  tiny  square  of  carpet,  and  leaned  over  the  bed; 
then,  with  a  beaming  nod  of  approval,  tip-toed  back,  and 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  window,  sat  down  to  work.  Now  to 
Nature's  drowsy  sounds  was  added  another — the  sound  of 
human  work.  Click — click — went  the  busy  needles.  One — 
two — purl  and  plain — the  smiling  lips  moved  as  they  counted. 
Yet,  now  and  then,  she  would  lay  down  her  needles  and 
glance  towards  the  bed.  Then  the  smile  would  vanish — at 
least,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  for  a  smile  to  vanish  from  such 
a  face — and  the  lips,  instead  of  counting,  would  sigh. 

Once  or  twice  she  tip-toed  to  the  bedside,  and  shook  her 
head  doubtfully  as  she  settled  to  work  again.  Click — click — 
one-two — purl-plain-increase-decrease — turn  and  change  the 
shining  needles.  The  little  white  sock  was  growing.  Church 


When  Pan  Pipes 


Clock,  watching  over  the  busy  workers  in  the  fields,  the  quiet 
sleepers  in  their  green  beds  below,  struck  noon. 

The  workers  stirred — the  sleepers  slept  on.  Not  yet  would 
they  awaken.  Busy  housewives  fetched  down  shining  steel- 
pronged  forks  and  horn-handled  knives,  and  drew  settles 
closer.  In  the  red-tiled,  oak-panelled  kitchens  the  wenches 
lowered  huge  cranes,  and  served  steaming  bacon  and  sweet 
green  peas  into  platters  set  on  the  long  wooden  tables.  All 
was  cheerful  bustle  and  orderly  confusion;  brawny,  weather- 
beaten,  sun-dried  men  trooped  in;  the  lassies  fetched  ale  and 
supplied  their  wants,  then  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  for  the  sun 
stood  at  its  zenith ;  its  beams  fell  almost  straight,  and  with 
noon  and  the  mid-day  dinner  the  height  of  the  working  day 
was  reached. 

Jeremy  opened  his  eyes,  and  the  little  apple-cheeked  woman, 
ever  on  the  watch,  nodded  mysteriously,  pursed  her  lips,  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  Presently  she  returned,  bearing  a  cup 
of  steaming  beef  tea.  Jeremy  softly  drew  his  arm  away,  and 
turned  the  sleeping  child  from  him. 

"Needn't  be  afraid,  master — he  won't  wake  yet  awhiles. 
Sit  up  and  eat  something."  The  voice  was  gentle  and  soft, 
with  a  marked  suggestion  of  Scottish  birth,  shown  more 
in  the  inflexion  and  burr  than  in  the  words  themselves.  In 
moments  of  agitation  it  became  more  noticeable,  broadening 
out  at  times  to  a  decided  accent. 

She  propped  him  with  pillows,  and  putting  the  basin  before 
him,  watched  him  eat  with  anxious  concern.  Then,  seeing 
him  well  launched,  she  trotted  back  to  her  chair.  Presently 
she  glanced  up  and  caught  his  eye.  He  was  looking  at  her 
with  a  comical  expression  of  fear. 

"Margie,  I'm  so  sorry.    I  can't  manage  it." 

The  smiling  lips  fell;  the  tiny  feet  trotted  across  the  room 
again.  She  peered  into  the  basin  and  her  face  fell  lower. 

"Oh,  master,  you  haven't  touched  it  hardly,  and  I  made  it 
all  myself.  Mrs.  Chubbe  scolded,  but  I  thought  I'd  make  it 


Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland  19 

just  this  once.  Come,  Master  Jeremy,  try  again."  She  lifted 
the  spoon  to  his  lips,  feeding  him  like  a  baby,  but  after  the 
second  mouthful,  placed  the  cup  on  a  table  with  a  sigh,  and, 
moving  the  pillows,  let  him  lie  back. 

"So  sorry,  Margie.  And  it  was  such  good  beef  tea,  too. 
Never  mind,  I  shan't  trouble  you  much  longer." 

She  was  busy  with  the  basin,  and  made  no  answer,  but  he 
saw  her  lift  her  skirt,  draw  out  a  handkerchief  from  the  petti- 
coat pocket,  and  with  her  back  to  him,  lift  it  to  her  eyes. 

"Sit  down,  Margie,"  he  said  presently,  "I  won't  vex  you 
again.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  To  make  sure  I've  left  every- 
thing right.  Ah" — he  was  musing  again — "I  ought  to  be  con- 
tent ;  I've  had  happiness  such  as  few  men  have.  I've  worked, 
I've  lived,  I've  loved.  Not  enough  of  each  to  feel  satiation, 
but  enough  to  know  the  beauty  of  life.  And  yet — yet — but 
for  going  to  seek  her,  I'd  like  to  live  on,  to  see  her  child  grow 
up;  to  teach  him  to  work,  to  live,  to  love,  to  watch  Nature 
as  I've  watched  her,  to  see  sun  settings  and  sun  risings;  the 
procession  of  the  year;  blue  skies  for  joy,  grey  skies  for  peace, 
black  skies  for  storm.  Seas,  rivers,  countryside,  moorland — 
to  see  and  love  them  all,  as  I  have  seen  and  loved  them.  Well, 
I  must  be  content  to  die  peacefully,  with  all  I  love  around  me 
— Jerry,  you,  Margery,  my  work,  and  the  glorious  summer. 
And  somewhere,  not  far  off,  just  behind  the  curtain  which 
hangs  between  us  and  fairyland,  she's  waiting — so  near — so 
near — I  can  almost  feel  her  hand." 

He  paused — then,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  little  figure 
by  the  window,  came  back  to  earth.  "Margie — " 

She  turned,  no  longer  attempting  to  hide  the  tears  which 
fell  thick  and  fast  as  she  leaned  over  him. 

"Margie — "  his  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  "don't  fret  for 
me.  Think,  if  I  find  her,  behind  the  curtain.  Dry  your  tears, 
nursie,  and  listen."  She  smoothed  the  damp  hair  back  with 
those  tender  loving  fingers,  and  Jeremy  went  on. 

"Margery,  you'll  come  back,  won't  you?" 


20  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Yes,  master,  I'll  come  back  just  as  soon  as  ever  I  can. 
I'll  see  them  settled,  and  then  I'll  take  the  next  boat  back; 
I'll  be  back  in  a  year — an'  that'll  soon  pass." 

"And  in  the  meantime,  Margie,"  the  voice  grew  practical, 
"who  is  it  to  be— Mrs.  Chubbe?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Sir,  don't  let  him  go  to  her;  she's  hard — an'  she's  got 
a  scolding  tongue.  That  little  Betty,  I  hear  her  screaming 
sometimes,  she  speaks  that  sharp  to  her." 

"Betty's  a  naughty  child,  you  know,  Margie." 

"She's  high  spirited,  sir,  an'  mischievous,  but  I  shouldn't 
like  to  hear — "  she  broke  off,  with  an  explicit  nod  of  the 
head.  "No,  Master  Jeremy,  let  Widow  Hagges  take  him. 
She's  kind  an'  she's  religious — though  not,  'tis  true,  of  the 
true  faith.  But  he'll  be  well  looked  after." 

"Well,  then,  so  be  it,"  he  answered,  after  a  minute's  hesi- 
tation. "You  know  the  people  better  than  I  do.  And  you 
quite  understand  about  the  money,  Margery.  There's  a  thou- 
sand pounds.  Gardiner  and  Gardiner  will  see  that  three 
pounds  are  paid  every  month  to  Mrs.  Hagges.  When  you 
come  back,  you'll  have  him,  you  know.  You  can  manage, 
Margie,  on  fifty  pounds  a  year,  can't  you?"  he  added  anx- 
iously. 

"Manage,  sir,  an'  I  live  in  luxury.  I  only  wish  my  young 
sister  had  chosen  a  working  man  in  England,  'stead  of  going 
trapesing  into  them  wilds,  with  Indians,  and  scalps,  and  you 
don't  know  what.  It'll  be  a  glad  day  when  I  get  back,  though 
I  couldn't  leave  my  little  girl,  who's  only  had  me  to  look  to." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,  Margie,"  he  sighed  gently.  "Ah, 
if  there  had  only  been  someone  else  besides."  For  answer  the 
little  woman  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"Ah,  Master  Jeremy,  for  the  last  time  I  beg  of  you — let 
me  take  him  to  Ardelimar.  He'll  be  in  safe  keeping — an' 
he'll  be  loved  so  dearly.  For  his  ain  sake,  and  for  the  sake 
o*  the  wee  bairn  who  was  loved  sae  mony  years  ago.  Ah, 
master,  dinna  say  me  nay." 


Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland  21 

"No,  Margie — "  the  gentle  lips  closed  firmly.  "I'll  not 
have  my  boy  taught  to  hate — to  despise  her.  Nor  shall  he 
be  taught  that  wealth  and  position  are  worth  more  than  hon- 
est hard  work.  But  one  day,  when  he  has  made  himself  a 
man,  then  take  him  to  Ardelimar,  and  show  him  the  old 
home;  for,  after  all,  it  is  his  inheritance.  Margie — "  he  was 
away  in  the  past,  "do  you  remember  the  old  garden?  My 
lady's  garden  we  used  to  call  it.  The  gilliflowers  and  forget- 
me-nots  in  the  spring,  the  roses  and  lilies  in  the  summer-time, 
and  the  long  apple  walk  where  the  ground  is  thickly  white 
with  fallen  blooms.  Do  you  remember  the  arch  which  I  built, 
and  the  sun-dial  on  the  house,  and  the  peace  of  it  all — oh,  the 
wondrous  peace,  the  peace  of  heaven.  And  I  shall  never  see 
it  again  in  this  life.  After — who  knows?" 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  a  catch  in  the  old 
woman's  breath.  Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"Margie,  when — afterwards,  you  know — there'll  be  those 
things,"  he  gave  a  comprehensive  wave  towards  the  casts 
and  pieces  of  sculpture.  "Send  them  to  Gallagher.  He'll 
know  what  to  do  with  them.  He's  an  old  friend,  and  though 
a  bit  of  a  rascal,  he'll  treat  you  fairly,  for  my  sake.  But 
remember,  Margie,  they're  not  to  be  sold  unless  Jerry  really 
wants  the  money,  whatever  Gallagher  may  say.  A  man's 
not  celebrated  till  he's  dead,  and  the  longer  he's  dead,  the 
better  for  his  work,  that  is,  if  he's  a  genius — and  I'm  that, 
Yes,  if  I  could  only  have  had  a  few  more  years,  I'd  have 
made  my  name  ring  through  Christendom.  Ah  me — Ars 
longa,  vita  brevis  est.  Never  were  truer  words."  Another 
pause,  and  again  the  eager  voice,  weaker  now,  went  on. 
"Above  all,  Margie — the  Pan  isn't  to  be  sold  till  Jerry's  twenty. 
Gallagher  knows ;  he's  got  all  instructions.  But  jog  his  mem- 
ory, when  the  time  comes.  You  know  which  I  mean — the 
one  you  don't  like.  Margery,"  he  spoke  curiously,  "why 
don't  you  like  it?  It's  my  best,  far  and  away." 

He  waited  for  the  answer;  the  woman  gaused,  unable  to 
find  words  of  explanation. 


22  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  don't  know,  Master  Jerry,  not  exactly  why.  There's  a 
something  in  the  creature's  face  for  all  his  gentle  kind  look 
— a  something — "  she  hesitated.  "Something  cruel-like — sort 
of  obstinate."  He  raised  himself,  almost  triumphantly. 

"Did  you  see  it,  Margery,  did  you?  Then  I've  got  what 
I  wanted,  the  'sweep  away  all  obstacles — never  mind  the  means 
for  the  end.'  That's  what  I  wanted,  that's  Nature.  Stern, 
relentless,  inexorable.  That's  why  there's  sorrow  and  trou- 
ble, Margie,  which  will  all  come  right  in  the  end." 

"Aye,  Master  Jerry,  I  know  that.  Our  Lady  an'  the  Blessed 
Saints  will  see  to  it."  He  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"No,  no,  Margery,  they're  only  part  of  the  means.  There's 
something  more,  greater,  nobler,  more  glorious  even  than  those. 
Death's  nothing — only  a  change  in  the  great  scheme.  Sun, 
moon,  stars,  our  little  world — all  nothing — nothing  alone,  yet 
part  of  the  whole.  Life — that's  more — for  it's  a  common 
gift  for  all  to  use." 

Margery  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  She  was  used  to  these 
flights  of  fancy,  to  her  they  were  mere  words.  The  light 
treatment  of  the  saints  grated  on  her,  but  she  had  long  ago 
given  up  argument.  She  put  him  back  like  a  little  child,  draw- 
ing the  coverings  over  him,  and  bidding  him  sleep.  But 
Jeremy  had  more  to  say. 

"Margery,"  and  the  voice  was  very  weak  now,  each  word 
was  an  effort;  "tell  him  to  be  strong,  to  help  the  weak,  to  be 
chivalrous  to  all  women — for  her  sake ;  to  be  a  staunch  friend, 
a  true  gentleman,  and  above  all,  a  man.  Teach  him  that, 
Margie,  will  you?" 

She  kissed  the  long  thin  fingers — the  fingers  of  the  idealist, 
the  artist.  "I  will,  Master  Jeremy — so  help  me,  God." 
Jeremy  lay  back  contentedly. 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  and  Church  Clock  struck  one. 

Jerry  stirred,  roused,  rubbed  his  eyes  with  chubby  knuckles, 
and  lay  drowsily  staring  at  the  dancing  flies  on  the  ceiling. 
Margery  trotted  round. 

"Come  along,   Master  Jerry.     Come  and   see   Betty,   and 


Jeremy  Goes  to  Fairyland  23 

have  your  dinner.  You've  had  a  nice  long  sleep,  and  it's  get- 
ting late." 

Jerry  waved  a  chubby  fist,  and  Jeremy  from  the  bed-clothes 
responded  in  like  manner.  Then,  as  the  door  shut,  he  closed 
his  eyes  wearily.  He  was  very,  very  tired. 

Church  Clock  struck  two  and  three.  Margie  stole  in;  her 
needles  sang  their  song  of  industry.  The  sun  sank  from  its 
height ;  shadows  grew  longer.  Church  Clock  struck  four,  and 
old  Anthony,  the  sexton,  rang  the  gleaners'  bell.  Down  the 
village  street  they  trooped,  mothers  looking  forward  to  the 
bin  of  flour  gathered  and  stored  for  the  winter;  children,  with 
joyous  thoughts  of  unchecked  wanderings  over  stubbly  fields, 
and  possible  small  adventures.  Maidens  hurried  to  glean 
where  their  lovers  worked,  and  with  them  came  damsels  from 
the  farms  around,  bearing  cans  of  ale  and  cakes,  called  this 
time  "fourses." 

The  sun  sank  behind  the  busy  fields,  flooding  all  with  a 
crimson  glory;  high  up,  Church  Clock  peeped  into  odd  cor- 
ners, and  saw  all  sorts  of  things ;  so  he  moved  his  hands  very 
slowly,  and  time  lagged  behind,  loath  to  let  the  pretty  scene 
slip  into  the  past. 

Regretfully,  lingeringly,  Church  Clock,  struck  five.  Mar- 
gery tip-toed  across  the  room,  gave  one  look  at  the  peaceful 
sleeping  face,  then  flung  up  her  arms  with  a  sobbing  cry. 

"Oh,  master,  master — I  hadna  thocht  'twould  be  sae  sune." 

A  little  hand  had  lifted  the  shadowy,  misty  curtain  which 
hangs  between  us  and  fairyland,  and  grasping  Jeremy's  in 
its  cool  gentle  clasp,  had  drawn  him  in.  The  curtain  fell — 
the  quiet  face  wore  a  look  of  radiant  happiness,  for  he  had 
found  the  beautiful  Fairy. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  WITCH'S  COTTAGE 

THE  big  farm  kitchen  was  cleared  for  the  afternoon.  Red 
tiles,  newly  "slurried,"  blushed  rosily;  bright  dish  cov- 
ers, copper  kettles,  the  brass  "kitty"  by  the  fireside,  the  copper 
warming-pan  on  the  wall,  grinned  cheerily.  Great  beams, 
hung  with  hams  and  sides  of  bacon,  wore  a  solemn  expression, 
as  though  conscious  of  their  own  dignity.  The  diamond-paned 
casements  were  merely  graceful  and  decorative,  and  the  chim- 
ney corner,  with  its  pewter  spittoons,  well  worn  cushions, 
churchwarden  pipes,  and  bowl  of  paper  spills,  spoke  of  com- 
fort earned  after  labour.  A  fire,  despite  the  heat,  burned  in 
the  huge  grate.  Over  it  hung  the  crane,  now  bearing  a  mon- 
ster kettle,  a  kettle  which  sang  merrily  a  song  of  the  fragrant 
leaf,  of  cream  and  home-made  bread,  of  cheese  and  rusks,  of 
honey  and  new  baked  cakes,  of  pink  and  white  ham,  of  rasp- 
berry pies,  and  all  the  good  things  of  a  farmhouse  tea.  And 
over  all  hung  that  peculiar  odour,  a  mixture  of  roses,  hot 
bread,  damp  bricks,  hams,  and  summer  heat. 

On  a  settle  sat  Jerry,  and  beside  him,  brown  linsey  frock 
turned  up,  knelt  Margery,  endeavouring  to  squeeze  a  fat  foot 
into  a  somewhat  tight  shoe.  Over  the  edge  of  a  clean  starched 
pinny  Jerry  watched  the  process  with  solemn  brown  eyes. 
Others  were  watching.  Where  time  moves  slowly,  small 
things  are  of  great  account.  Sally,  the  kitchen  wench,  leaned 
on  her  broom  with  a  broad  smile  on  her  equally  broad  face, 
a  face  which,  when  scoured  for  the  afternoon  with  yellow  soap 
and  much  vigour,  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  warming- 
pan. 

At  the  end  of  the  settle  hung  a  small  child,  impish,  elfish, 
pixie  like;  a  mouth,  with  scarlet  lips,  reached  half  across 

24 


The  Witch's  Cottage  25 

her  face;  two  eyes,  dark  almost  to  blackness,  sparkled  and 
gleamed  like  gems.  A  freckled  nose  turned  up  from  a 
freckled,  clearly  pale  face,  giving  it  a  roguish  expression,  and 
over  the  small  dainty  head  clustered  curls  of  a  deep,  reddish 
brown,  which  curls,  instead  of  hanging  in  long  graceful  spirals, 
were  short  and  uneven.  Two  days  ago,  they  had  been  all 
that  the  heart  of  a  mother  could  desire,  but  Miss  Betty  pre- 
ferred coolness,  and  in  the  privacy  of  the  orchard,  with  stolen 
scissors  and  only  Jerry  for  witness,  had  sheared  the  unneces- 
sary adornment  to  suit  her  own  convenience. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  short-waisted  pink  frock,  from  be- 
neath which  emerged  legs  clad  in  pantaloons,  and  terminating 
in  white  socks  and  tiny  feet  cased  in  sandals.  She  was  utterly 
absorbed  in  watching  the  performance,  but  the  restless  brown 
fingers  busily  snapped  the  elastic  which  held  the  shoes.  Mrs. 
Chubbe  broke  the  silence. 

"Them  shoes's  too  tight,  mistress;  best  get  another  pair." 
A  sharp  snap  from  behind  caused  her  to  look  round  suddenly. 
"Stop  pulling  your  elastic,  Betty,  naughty  gal." 

The  child  looked  up,  shot  a  daring  glance  at  the  faces  round, 
and  defiantly  snapped  the  elastic  again.  Mrs.  Chubbe  stretched 
out  a  long  arm.  "There  then — take  that."  A  stinging  slap 
on  the  brown  knuckles  sent  the  blood  rushing  scarlet  to  the 
tiny  face.  The  black  eyes  gleamed  fiercely,  the  red  lips  shut 
firmly.  For  a  moment  Betty  looked  down  at  her  fingers,  put 
them  into  her  mouth  for  comfort,  then  deliberately  tweaked 
the  elastic  again,  quietly,  half  frightened  at  her  own  audacity. 

"There — if  you  ever  saw  the  likes  of  that?  Take  your  fin- 
gers off,  miss,  or  to  bed  you  go." 

Betty  glanced  through  the  casement,  then  at  Jerry,  weigh- 
ing the  pros  and  cons.  Bed  on  a  hot  August  afternoon,  with 
bread  and  water  for  tea,  was  unpleasant,  but  to  give  in  was 
worse.  She  gave  the  elastic  a  sounding  thwack — as  well  be 
hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb.  Mrs.  Chubbe  pounced  upon  her. 

"You  naughty,  disobedient  gal.  What  will  become  of  you 
when  you  die  ?  To  bed  you  go,  this  very  minute." 


26  When  Pan  Pipes 

But  Betty  had  no  intention  of  going  martyr-like  to  the 
stake.  With  the  ease  of  long  habit  she  stiffened  every  muscle 
in  her  little  body,  at  the  same  time  emitting  a  continuous 
scream,  which  caused  Margery  to  stop  her  ears,  and  sit  back 
on  her  heels. 

"Lord-a-mussey !"  she  ejaculated,  and  Jerry's  brown  eyes 
filled  with  amazement. 

"Yes,  Mistress  Marvin,  now  you  see  what  she  is,  a  naughty, 
disobedient  child  as  ever  I  see.  I've  kept  her  quiet,  let  her 
have  her  own  way,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  poor  gentleman. 
But  now  there's  no  need,  and,  well,  you  can  see  for  yourself. 
Now,  Miss — " 

Mrs.  Chubbe  stooped  over  the  rigid  form,  and  with  long  lean 
arms  lifted  her  bodily.  The  naughty  legs  relaxed,  for  pur- 
poses of  their  own;  the  tiny  fingers  nipped  and  pinched  till 
they  were  pinioned  in  a  firm  grasp.  Kicking,  struggling,  she 
was  carried  away,  two  frilly  legs  dangling  busily  under  Mrs. 
Chubbe's  arm,  the  brown  curly  head  hanging  low  in  front. 
At  the  door  came  an  interlude ;  a  loud  cry  from  the  captor,  a 
final,  but  unsuccessful  attempt  for  freedom  from  the  victim, 
followed  by  the  sound  of  a  stinging  slap. 

"You  bad,  wicked  gal.     Biting!    Fie,  for  shame  on  you." 

The  footsteps  receded  up  the  wooden  staircase;  there  was 
silence  in  the  kitchen,  only  broken  by  Margery's  "Well,  I 
never,"  and  a  giggle  from  Sally  as  she  slipped  away. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  returned,  triumphantly  victorious,  tying  a  rag 
round  the  wounded  finger. 

"Such  a  piece  I  never  did  see,"  she  said;  "but  we'll  see 
who'll  be  master.  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child,  say  I, 
an'  she's  got  a  slipperin'  to-day  that'll  cool  her  down  for  a 
time.  The  saucy  puss!"  A  grim  smile  stole  over  the  hard 
features.  "For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  help  loving  the  child, 
though  she's  no  kith  nor  kin  of  mine." 

Margery  Marvin  looked  up  in  surprise.    "No  kith  nor  kin  ?" 

The  landlady  shook  her  head. 

"No,  though  how't  slipped  out,  I  can't  say.    Like  as  not 


The  Witch's  Cottage  27 

'twas  meant  to  be  told,  and  'tis  a  relief  to  be  sure.  You're 
going  away,  an'  you're  a  trusty  sort  o'  body,  an'  somehow 
I  feel  'twould  be  a  comfort  to  tell  what  no  one  but  me'n  my 
husband  know."  Margery,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  speaker's 
face,  listened,  slightly  wondering  at  the  trust  reposed  in  her. 
Mrs.  Chubbe,  dropping  her  voice,  spoke  rapidly. 

"Seven  years  ago,  one  cruel  cold  winter  night,  snowin', 
an'  the  ice  on  the  horse  pond  three  inches  thick,  an'  icicles 
hangin'  a  foot  long  from  the  eaves,  there  came  a  little  whinin' 
cry.  'What's  that,  master?'  says  I,  for  my  hearin's  good. 
'What's  what?'  says  he.  'You're  always  hearin'  summat, 
missis — ghosts  an'  sperrits,  an'  such  like.'  'That's  no  ghost/ 
says  I,  whereupon  it  came  again — sich  a  little  pitiful  cry, 
Matthew,  he  hears  it  that  time,  an'  we  went  together  to  the 
back'us  door.  An'  there,  if  you  believe  me,  was  a  baby 
wrapped  in  blankets,  an'  tied  round  wi'  a  broad  red  sash,  so 
soft  an'  silky  you  could  have  drawn  it  through  my  weddin' 
ring.  We  took  it  in  an'  gave  it  milk.  'Now  what's  to  be 
done?'  says  I.  'Well,  there's  only  one  thing,'  says  Matthew, 
'send  it  to  Channington  work'us  to-morrow.  It's  market  day, 
an'  I'll  take  it  along  in  the  cart/  I  just  gave  him  a  look. 
'That  you  won't,'  says  I,  'when  you  know  that  for  eight  years 
we've  been  longin'  for  a  child  of  our  own.  We'll  keep  it — 
an'  that  settles  it.'  'Just  as  you  like,  missis/  says  he,  an'  I 
mind  me  now  he  gave  a  chuckle.  Since  then  he's  told  me  he 
only  said  it  o'  purpose,  knowin'  I  was  given  to  contrariness, 
an'  wantin'  the  child  as  much  as  ever  as  I  did.  An'  so  we've 
kept  her — folk  think  she's  my  sister's  child — an'  here  she  is, 
as  big  a  handful  as  a  family.  An'  now,  Mrs.  Marvin,  about 
them  shoes.  That  child's  'Patience  on  a  monument'  an'  no 
mistake.  They're  too  tight,  I  tell  you." 

"I  don't  like  to  put  on  his  old  ones  to  go  in,"  answered  the 
nurse,  "they're  shabby.  Try  again,  Master  Jerry."  A  good 
push,  a  slap  on  the  sole,  and  the  wilful  foot  was  in. 

"That's  right,"  cried  Margie.  "An*  now  I'll  put  on  my 
bonnet,  an'  we'll  go." 


28  When  Pan  Pipes 

She  lifted  the  child  to  his  feet  and  crossed  the  room.  Jerry 
followed  slowly.  What  with  running  wild  in  meadows,  dab- 
bling in  brooks,  and  being  used  as  assistants  when  climbing 
trees,  his  feet  were  swollen  much  beyond  best  shoes.  He 
struck  out  bravely,  however,  with  only  an  occasional  flinch. 
But  the  vision  of  the  long  walk  down  the  lane  to  the  Widow 
Hagges'  cottage  rose  up,  and  involuntarily  a  little  sigh  es- 
caped. Mrs.  Chubbe,  still  watching,  turned  sharply. 

"Mrs.  Marvin,  I'd  be  ashamed  of  myself,  lettin'  that  child 
walk  in  them  shoes.  Two  sizes  too  small  they  be." 

Margery  turned,  saw  the  wistful  beseeching  look  on  the 
small  face,  and,  with  a  cry,  caught  him  up,  hugging,  kissing 
and  self -reproaching.  "Did  they  hurt — the  nasty  shoes !  An' 
Margie's  a  cruel  nurse." 

"Best  take  them  off,  mistress,"  said  Mrs.  Chubbe  drily. 
She  obeyed,  and  Jerry  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"They  didn't  hurt,  Margie;  at  least,  not  so  very  much,  but 
I  like  the  old  ones  best." 

"An'  he  shall  have  them  too.  Nasty  tight  things,  we'll  burn 
them." 

"No — don't  do  that,"  said  the  farmer's  wife,  "there's  many 
a  child  'ud  be  glad  enough  of  them."  Margery  nodded  and 
rose.  Jerry  trotted  over  to  Mrs.  Chubbe  and  touched  her 
hand. 

"Mrs.  Chubbe — may  I  go  and  say  good-bye  to  Betty?  I'm 
sure  she's  good  now." 

She  looked  down  and  smiled  at  the  earnest  face.  "Yes, 
child,  go,  an'  you  may  tell  Betty,  if  she's  good,  she  may  get 
up  for  tea." 

Jerry's  face  brightened,  even  sparkled,  as  he  scudded  across 
the  kitchen  and  climbed  the  wooden  stairs  outside. 

Margery  reached  for  her  neat  brown  bonnet  and  tippet,  a 
doubtful  expression  on  her  smiling  face. 

"Mrs.  Chubbe,"  she  began,  in  a  hesitating  tone,  "I'm  thinkin' 
— perhaps — I've  done  you  an  injustice.  You  see,  there's  been 
little  time  to  do  aught  but  cook  an'  nurse,  an'  so  on — an'  some- 


The  Witch's  Cottage  29 

how,  it  seems  to  me,  p'raps  we  haven't  got  to  know  each  other 
— not  rightly.  I  thought  you  were  hard  on  the  child."  Mar- 
gery stroked  the  linsey  gown  absently.  "You  mustn't  mind 
me  sayin'  it — but — I  thought  you'd  a  sharp  tongue — an'  the 
widow  spoke  fair — an' — an' — she's  got  religion,  yet,  somehow, 
now,  I  wish  I  was  leavin'  him  with  you."  Mrs.  Chubbe's  face, 
darkening  at  the  beginning  of  Margery's  speech,  cleared. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "that's  straight  spoken.  As  to  my  tongue, 
I  own  'tis  sharp,  but  when  you  come  to  have  charge  of  a 
house  an'  dairy,  to  say  nothing  o'  the  poultry  an'  pigs,  which 
are  enough  to  turn  a  body's  hair  grey,  an'  a  pack  o'  idle 
gigglin'  hussies  always  runnin'  after  the  men — an'  Lord  knows, 
they're  little  better — besides  a  husband,  an'  a  mischievous  piece 
like  that,"  she  gave  an  expressive  jerk  upwards,  "well,  then, 
Mistress  Marvin,  you'll  know  that  a  soft  tongue  an'  gentle 
ways  ar'n't  no  manner  o'  use.  But  I'd  like  to  ha'  had  the 
child,"  she  added  thoughtfully.  "He'd  have  had  to  fare  like 
our  Betty,  whippin's  an'  all,"  with  a  grim  smile ;  "not  that  he's 
a  child  to  want  much  o'  that,  though  I  think  he's  got  a  mind 
o'  his  own,  an'  likely  he'd  ha'  done  her  good.  Yes,  I'm  sorry, 
but  I'll  keep  him  in  mind,  Mistress  Marvin,  an'  if  I  didn't, 
I  know  someone  who  will,  an'  that's  Betty." 

The  dot-and-go-one  footsteps  were  coming  downstairs-. 
Margery  picked  up  her  tippet  and  turned. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Mrs.  Chubbe.  I  meant  no  harm,  an' 
you've  taken  it  as  'twas  meant.  'Tis  too  late  to  alter  now. 
I've  given  my  word,  an',  after  all,  'tisn't  for  long.  You'll 
give  him  an  eye,  won't  you?" 

"That  I  will,"  answered  the  farmer's  wife  reassuringly. 

"Then  we'll  be  going.     Come,  Master  Jerry,  say  good-bye." 

The  child  lifted  his  face,  and  Mrs.  Chubbe  gave  him  a  sound- 
ing kiss.  "Good-bye,  child,  an'  if  Mrs.  Hagges'll  spare  you, 
you're  to  come  up  on  Sunday  for  the  day." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Chubbe,"  said  Jerry,  gravely 
slipping  his  hand  into  Margery's.  "An*  please,  Betty's  good 
now,  an'  she's  coming  down  to  tea." 


30  When  Pan  Pipes 

Mrs.  Chubbe  accompanied  them  to  the  door,  then  across 
the  stackyard  to  the  stile.  Lifting  Jerry  over,  she  stood 
shading  her  eyes  from  the  afternoon  sun  and  watched  the 
two  figures  cross  the  meadow  and  disappear  into  the  lane — 
a  lane,  deep  between  high  hedges,  thick  with  dog  roses  and 
wild  honeysuckle,  bordered  by  ditches  where  grass  grew  rankly 
green,  wild  parsley,  stinging  nettles  white  with  bloom,  meadow- 
sweet and  wild  garlic.  Overhead,  trees  met,  whispered  to 
each  other  secrets,  here  and  there  intertwining  branches  and 
defying  the  sun's  rays  to  penetrate,  while  beneath,  huge  brown 
roots  poked  through  the  beaten  track,  in  some  places  high 
enough  to  form  a  seat. 

But  it  was  not  all  shadow.  As  the  lane  twisted  and  turned, 
even  winding  back  on  itself  at  times,  there  were  patches  of 
sunlight,  spaces  flecked  with  shadows  which  danced  them- 
selves into  patterns,  now  widening,  now  narrowing,  changing 
like  the  patterns  on  a  kaleidoscope  as  each  breath  of  summer 
rustled  among  the  leaves  above. 

Jerry  trotted  along — the  shoes  were  comfortable — his  hand 
in  Margery's,  and  a  thoughtful  look  on  his  solemn  face.  In 
a  vague  sort  of  way  he  recalled  dimly  the  former  settings  of 
his  little  life.  There  was  a  glorious  recollection  of  a  place 
called  the  studio,  where  daddy,  in  a  long  white  coat,  mixed 
clay  and  chipped  marble,  and  told  him  wonderful  tales.  Tales 
of  Knights  and  Castles,  of  Ogres  and  Witches,  Imps  and 
Fairies — also  others,  equally  wonderful,  of  a  baby  in  the  bul- 
rushes, a  man  who  was  put  into  a  den  of  lions,  and  another 
little  child  who  was  born  in  a  manger. 

Then  the  studio  vanished,  and  a  happy  playground,  called 
the  seaside,  took  its  place.  Cliffs,  beach,  sparkling  water, 
jumbled  and  jostled  against  the  fairy  tales.  There  were  long 
walks  on  hard  wet  sand;  over  windswept  downs,  where  the 
grass  was  short  and  slippery,  and  black- faced  sheep  nibbled 
and  stared  at  you,  but  scampered  off  on  near  approach.  Then 
the  walks  changed  to  days  on  the  rocks,  equally  delightful. 

Daddy  was  too  tired  to  do  much,  even  to  talk,  and  Jerry 


The  Witch's  Cottage  31 

had  to  find  his  own  amusements — not  a  difficult  thing  for  a 
small  boy,  given  rocks,  star-fish,  shrimps,  and  sea  urchins. 
The  summer  days  faded;  the  sea,  instead  of  being  blue  and 
friendly,  suddenly  became  something  to  be  feared.  Its  gen- 
tle, lapping  waves,  changed  to  high  mountains  of  grey-brown 
water,  falling  in  angry  thunder  on  the  beach,  then  receding 
with  a  sound  of  dragging  reluctant  stones,  only  to  gather 
again.  The  sea  was  a  wild  and  fearsome  thing  then,  and 
daddy  hated  it  as  much  as  Jerry.  He  said  it  was  Pan  show- 
ing his  goat  legs — whatever  that  might  mean.  They  had  fled 
from  it,  and  in  warm,  crowded  London,  found  escape  from 
the  cruel,  dreary  winter  of  seaside  and  country. 

The  flutter  of  Spring's  wings  roused  them  again.  In  the 
old  farmhouse  inn,  Jerry  discovered  a  new  world — a  world 
of  chickens,  pigs,  and  friendly  animals,  of  stackyards  and 
stables,  of  fields  and  birds'  nests,  and  the  mysteries  of  eggs. 
But  Jerry's  little  heart  was  lonely,  for  daddy  no  longer  shared 
his  discoveries.  The  change  from  easy  chair  to  bed,  from 
late  rising  and  early  retiring  to  complete  rest,  had  been  so 
gradual  that  the  child  hardly  noticed  it.  The  final  break  came 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  At  one  fell  swoop  the  roots  of 
his  small  life  were  rudely  torn  up.  Daddy  gone,  Margie 
going — stunned  and  bewildered,  Jerry's  brain  failed  to  grasp 
the  situation  in  its  reality,  and  he  accepted  things  with  a  cal- 
lousness not  due  to  want  of  feeling,  rather  because  death  and 
loss  were  as  yet  unknown  factors  in  his  world.  The  day  was 
not  far  off  when  he  was  to  realize  his  loss  with  a  poignant 
keenness. 

He  knew  that  he  was  going  to  live  with  the  Widow  Hagges 
till  Margery  came  back;  his  thoughts  travelled  no  further. 
It  was  a  sober  little  figure  that  trotted  down  the  twisting  lane ; 
only  when  it  turned  for  the  last  time,  and  the  cottage  appeared, 
did  his  grasp  tighten.  Margery  looked  down  tenderly,  and 
Jerry  returned  a  wistful  smile. 

"You'll  be  a  good  boy,  my  dearie,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  Margie,  I  promise." 


32  When  Pan  Pipes 

"And  if  you  want  anything  different,  you'll  go  to  Mrs. 
Chubbe,  won't  you  ?"  Margery's  heart  was  assailed  by  doubts ; 
had  she  done  the  right  thing  for  her  boy?  Jerry  nodded; 
something  in  his  throat  forbade  speech,  and  they  entered 
through  the  tiny  green  gate. 

It  was  a  fitting  cottage  for  such  a  lane.  Low,  rose-covered, 
with  a  porch  of  lattice  work,  and  casement  windows  upon 
whose  snowy  sills  stood  flower  pots,  red  ochred,  and  filled 
with  fiery  geraniums.  A  garden  surrounded  it — a  garden  of 
gnarled  old  apple  trees,  currant  bushes  and  old  fashioned 
flowers — and  the  whole  was  sunk  amidst  dark  woods,  inter- 
spersed with  sunny  cornfields.  .  On  the  pathway,  cobbled  and 
uneven,  sat  a  great  black  cat,  alternately  washing  and  sunning 
itself  in  the  mellow  afternoon  light.  It  looked  up  at  the 
approaching  footsteps  with  a  glance  of  curiosity,  then  re- 
sumed its  task  complacently.  Yet  the  whole  picture  awoke 
unpleasant  feelings  in  Jerry's  heart.  He  edged  away  from 
the  animal,  clutching  Margery's  protecting  hand.  For  some- 
how a  sense  of  danger  crept  into  his  mind.  In  just  such  a 
cottage  might  have  dwelt  the  wicked  witch,  who  so  often 
figured  in  daddy's  story,  and  a  conviction  grew  like  a  seed, 
bigger  and  bigger  with  each  confirming  incident,  that  the 
widow  was  indeed  a  witch,  seeking  little  children  only  to 
devour  them  later. 

But  though  terror  had  him  in  her  clutches,  he  said  nothing. 
What  child  ever  told  its  fears?  Only  as  they  stood  in  the 
porch  did  a  gleam  of  hope  arise.  Over  the  fields,  afar  off, 
yet  near  enough  to  distinguish  it  quite  plainly,  watched  Church 
Clock,  and  a  thrill  of  pleasure  came  as  he  caught  sight  of  its 
friendly  face,  and  heard  the  cheerful  voice  chime  out  four 
hours.  The  door  was  shut.  A  trifle  perhaps,  but  trifles  count 
for  much. 

"She  can't  surely  have  forgotten,"  murmured  Margery,  rap- 
ping briskly  again.  Presently  footsteps  came  along  the  pas- 
sage, slow  wandering  footsteps,  and  a  hand  lifted  the  latch. 
But  ah,  for  the  tale  a  door  can  tell !  The  quick,  wide  throw- 


The  Witch's  Cottage  33 

back,  which  is  almost  simultaneous  with  warm  kisses  and  glad 
greeting;  the  reluctant,  slow  movement,  when  neither  guest 
nor  host  is  particularly  pleased  to  see  the  other.  Then  there's 
the  prim,  conventional  opening  by  a  maid,  which  means  noth- 
ing, and  is  only  the  prologue  to  the  real  welcome.  Lastly 
comes  the  suspicious  door,  slowly  opening  a  few  inches,  sug- 
gestive of  a  foot  lurking  behind  to  add  strength,  if  necessary 
to  close  it  quickly. 

But  neither  of  these  things  happened  to  that  particular 
door.  The  fingers  fumbled  a  little,  then  it  opened — not  too 
slowly,  not  too  quickly;  neither  was  it  too  wide,  nor  too 
narrow,  quite  a  polite  door;  just  enough  for  the  widow  to 
stand  on  the  threshold. 

She  was  a  large  woman,  heavy,  round-faced,  and  neatly 
dressed  in  brown  merino,  with  a  turn  down  linen  collar  round 
her  voluminous  neck.  Jerry  was  fascinated  by  the  many 
chins,  also  by  something  she  wore  on  her  head,  something 
which  was  hair  and  yet  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest. 
It  was  kept  in  its  place  by  a  band  of  velvet,  to  Jerry  vaguely 
suggestive  of  a  crown.  Afterwards  he  grew  quite  intimate 
with  it,  even  to  fetching  it  from  its  hiding  place  in  the  tall- 
boy behind  the  kitchen  door,  and  calling  it  by  its  rightful 
name — "My  front." 

She  smiled,  but  to  Jerry  it  was  like  the  creasing  and  un- 
creasing  of  a  piece  of  daddy's  modelling  clay — just  as  real; 
and  again  the  thought  rose,  and  firmly  fixed  itself  in  his  little 
mind  that  she  was  a  witch. 

<  "Very  pleased  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Marvin."  The  superior 
politeness  of  the  widow's  tone — also  her  choice  of  words, 
had  much  to  do  with  the  favourable  impression  made  on 
Margery.  "Step  in,  do.  And  this  is  the  little  boy.  How 
do  you  do,  little  boy?  I  hope  you're  good,  and  love  your 
books  and  tasks.  This  way,  Mrs.  Marvin;  mind  the  step." 

She  led  them  through  a  passage,  down  a  stair,  into  the 
tidiest,  most  spotless  room  imaginable.  Margery  looked  her 
approval,  not  so  Jerry.  Used  to  the  litter  and  jumble  of  an 


34  When  Pan  Pipes 

artist's  domain,  and,  alas!  inheriting  the  love  of  it,  the  cold 
cleanliness  sent  a  shiver  through  his  frame.  It  was  papered 
with  a  flowery  paper,  and  hung  with  pictures.  Jerry  grew  to 
know  them  in  time,  and  to  loathe  them  with  the  loathing  of 
an  artistic  nature  for  what  is  insincere  in  art.  The  table 
was  set  with  the  best  china,  her  grandmother's,  white,  with 
pale  blue  roses  twined  round  it,  perfect  and  complete.  Never 
had  crack  or  stain  disfigured  its  glistening  surface,  and  the 
great  silver  teapot,  also  an  inheritance,  glistened  and  gleamed 
with  a  kind  of  cold  welcome. 

"Sit  down,  m'am,  and  make  yourself  at  home;  I'll  just 
make  the  tea."  Margery  obeyed,  and  drew  Jerry  near  to 
her. 

"She  never  asked  me  to  take  off  my  bonnet,"  was  the  un- 
spoken thought.  To  have  tea,  or  die  in  a  bonnet,  were  things 
alike  indecent  in  Margery's  ken.  She  glanced  at  the  dishes 
on  the  table.  Etiquette  forbade  her  to  do  so  in  her  hostess's 
presence,  and  again  her  heart  sank  with  dismay.  Accustomed 
to  the  farmhouse  tea,  with  its  loaded  table  and  bountiful  sup- 
ply, the  plate  of  thin  bread  and  butter,  another  of  pound  cake, 
and  a  small  dish  of  wafer  cut  ham,  seemed  all  too  scanty  for 
three  hungry  people.  Then,  with  an  angry  contempt  for  her 
thoughts,  she  told  herself  that  the  widow  was  poor. 

"She's  done  her  best,  poor  thing.  When  she  gets  extra, 
she'll  have  better  food." 

The  widow  rambled  back,  bearing  the  teapot  and  an  elab- 
orate cosy  of  woollen  flowers  and  moss.  Margery  comforted 
herself  with  the  fact  that  everything  was  elegant  to  a  degree. 
At  least  he  would  be  taught  manners,  and  at  Mrs.  Chubbe's 
— well!  On  the  whole  things  seemed  to  be  arranging  them- 
selves. The  bread  and  butter  was  excellent,  so  was  the  ham, 
as  much  as  there  was  of  them;  and  the  pound  cake  was  rich 
with  butter  and  yellow  with  eggs.  But  something  in  Jerry's 
throat  swelled  so  that  the  food  stuck.  Even  the  tea  only 
went  down  in  gulps,  and  something  perilously  like  water  came 
to  his  eyes. 


The  Witch's  Cottage  35 

"I  hope  you're  not  a  dainty  little  boy,"  said  the  widow, 
with  a  touch  of  frost  in  her  voice.  Margery  hastened  to 
correct  the  impression.  "Oh,  dear  no,  m'am.  He  can  eat 
everything  most  times.  It's  just  that  he's  feelin'  dull-like, 
at  me  going.  Isn't  it,  my  lamb?"  Jerry  nodded  and  made 
valiant  attacks  on  the  bread  and  butter,  with  a  keen  conscious- 
ness of  the  widow's  disapproving  look.  At  last  it  was  over 
and  they  rose. 

"You'd  like  to  see  his  room,  m'am,  afore  you  go,  I'm 
thinking."  Up  the  steep  deal  stairs,  scoured  ivory  white, 
and  sandwiched  between  walls,  they  went,  the  widow  lead- 
ing, Jerry  bringing  up  the  rear  with  his  dot-and-go-one  step 
— a  step  which  had  to  be  assisted  with  his  hands,  so  high  and 
steep  were  the  rises.  At  the  top  was  a  tiny  landing,  papered 
with  a  paper  of  red  roses,  just  the  sort  of  paper  for  a  witch. 
There  were  no  doors  apparently,  but  the  widow  touched, 
and  lo ! — a  door  in  the  paper  opened.  Magic,  for  sure.  She 
stood  aside,  and  Margery,  taking  Jerry's  hand,  passed  in. 
There  was  only  room  for  two. 

"What  a  nice  room,"  she  cried  approvingly ;  "and  so  clean." 

The  cleanliness  did  not  appeal  to  Jerry,  but  for  some  rea- 
son, the  room  did.  It  was  very  small,  with  ceilings  that  sloped 
down  on  either  side,  only  leaving  a  small  wall  of  paper — still 
roses.  An  iron  truckle  bedstead  stood  in  one  corner,  which 
Margery  eyed  longingly.  The  desire  to  inspect  sheets  and 
blankets  was  almost  overpowering,  but  with  the  widow  in  the 
doorway,  she  refrained. 

Most  of  the  room  was  gable,  ending  in  a  small  casement 
window,  and  Jerry  pulled  Margery  towards  it.  Over  the 
gay,  sweet-smelling  garden  it  looked,  over  the  summer  fields, 
and,  leaving  the  deep,  grassy  lane  on  the  right,  Jerry  caught 
two  landmarks  which  thrilled  his  small  heart  and  took  away 
some  of  the  loneliness.  Church  Clock,  now,  it  seemed  to 
him,  wearing  a  face  of  grave  friendliness,  as  though  it  said, 
"Cheer  up,  little  Jerry,  I'm  here ;  and  shall  be  here  when 
you're  gone  away.  And  I've  seen  lonely  little  children  be- 


36  When  Pan  Pipes 

fore;  yet  time  has  gone  on  and  things  have  come  right. 
Everything  comes  to  those  who  wait,  Jerry  boy.  You'll  hear 
me  strike,  and  you'll  say,  'Another  hour  gone — another  hour 
nearer  to  Margery,  another  hour  nearer  to  fairyland.' " 

This  is  what  the  Clock  said,  but  Jerry  didn't  know  it  in 
so  many  words;  only  it  was  a  face  from  the  past  looking 
down  on  him.  And  then,  as  again  his  glance  wandered,  he 
saw  a  familiar  stack  of  chimneys.  Curling  blue  smoke  came 
from  them,  and  as  it  wreathed  and  circled  towards  him,  it, 
too,  seemed  to  say,  "All  right,  Jerry.  Betty's  here,  and  I've 
got  lots  of  messages  from  her;  and  when  I  boil  the  kettle  on 
Sunday  you'll  be  here." 

Margery's  voice  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts. 

"You'll  be  happy  here,  Master  Jerry,  won't  you,  my  dearie  ?" 

There  was  a  wistful  expression  on  her  face,  something 
beseeching  an  affirmative  answer,  and  he  tried  hard  to  nod. 
But  the  effort  failed;  the  tears,  kept  back  so  manfully,  burst 
out.  In  a  moment  he  was  gathered  in  her  arms  and  held 
close. 

"Oh,  Margery,  dear,  dear  Margery,  don't  go."  The  wid- 
ow's face,  which  had  creased  itself  into  puckers  during  the 
survey,  now  uncreased.  She  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  naughty  little  boy,"  she  said.  The 
remark  was  lost  on  Jerry,  even  Margery  heard  without  hear- 
ing, and  sighing  deeply,  the  hostess  betook  herself  to  the  stairs, 
creaking  slowly  down.  Margery,  her  own  tears  falling  freely, 
sat  down  on  the  bedstead,  and  held  the  sobbing  child  closer. 

"Don't  cry,  my  lamb,  don't  cry.  See,  you're  breaking  Mar- 
gery's heart.  You  wouldn't  do  that,  lovey,  would  you?" 

Jerry's  head  shook ;  he  strangled  back  the  biggest  sobs. 

"An'  it  won't  be  long  before  we  have  a  little  house  together 
— you  and  I,  Master  Jerry.  An'  Betty  will  come  an'  see  us, 
an'  we'll  have  some  chickens,  an'  a  little  pig — an' — an' — " 
Margery's  voice  choked;  she  turned  it  to  a  cough,  "An'  I'll 
have  such  a  many  tales  to  tell  you  about  Canada.  Oh,  Mas- 
ter Jerry,  my  precious,  don't  fret  so ;  don't,  my  dearie." 


The  Witch's  Cottage  37 

Jerry  rubbed  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  laying  his  little 
puzzled  head  on  his  nurse's  shoulder,  was  silent,  except  for 
the  sighing  sobs,  which  gradually  subsided.  It  was  on  the 
tip  of  his  tongue  to  express  his  opinion  of  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  but  something  seemed  to  tell  him  that  Margery  wouldn't 
understand.  She  always  laughed  at  daddy's  fairy  tales.  He 
would  tell  Betty  on  Sunday.  She  wouldn't  laugh.  And 
Margery,  knowing  nothing  of  the  terrible  fear  in  her  boy's 
heart,  thought  him  comforted,  and  with  a  last  kiss,  whispered 
that  they  must  go  downstairs.  The  widow  would  think  them 
rude  folk  indeed. 

So  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  Margery  left  him;  not  for 
quite  the  last  time. 

"You'll  be  sure  he  gets  off  early,  m'am,  won't  you?"  she 
said  anxiously,  adding  apologetically,  "it's  early,  I  know,  but 
I'm  sure  you  won't  mind  for  once."  The  widow  creased  up 
her  face  and  promised. 

"I'm  an  early  riser  myself,"  she  replied.  "The  little  boy 
shall  be  ready." 

"Thank  you,  m'am,  thank  you.  Good-night,  Master  Jerry, 
lovey;  it  won't  be  long  before  morning." 

Jerry  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  forlorn  little  figure.  The 
widow  turned  in  as  the  gate  closed,  and  with  a  hurried  glance 
to  make  sure  that  the  coast  was  clear,  he  fled  down  the  pathway. 

"Good-bye,  Margie — good-bye,"  he  whispered  excitedly,  and 
Margery  from  the  lane  called  back,  waving  her  hand.  An- 
other moment,  and  the  trees  hid  her  from  sight;  he  caught  a 
flutter  of  the  brown  gown.  It  vanished,  and  loneliness  fell  like 
a  heavy  curtain. 

In  spite  of  all,  Jerry  slept  sound  that  night.  The  hour  after 
Margery  left  had  been  an  hour  of  torture.  The  widow  had 
restored  the  sitting-room  to  its  normal  condition;  had  ranged 
the  horsehair-seated  chairs  against  the  wall  in  cold  gentility; 
the  Bible  was  replaced  on  the  round  mahogany  table;  every 
crumb  was  swept  up,  and  the  funereal  cheerlessness  of  a  best 
room  fell  as  the  door  was  shut. 


38  When  Pan  Pipes 

Jerry  followed  the  widow  into  the  kitchen.  Here  things 
wore  a  more  comfortable,  everyday  aspect.  The  brick  floor, 
red-ochred,  was  warmly  bright,  the  cushions  of  the  easy  chair 
had  dumped  themselves  into  shapes ;  even  a  small,  three-legged 
stool  was  polished  with  use. 

The  widow  washed  up  silently,  Jerry  watching.  Then,  hav- 
ing put  away  the  cups  and  saucers  and  emptied  the  bowl,  she 
sat  down  in  the  easy  chair,  fitting  the  cushions  to  a  nicety. 

"You  can  sit  on  the  stool,  little  boy,"  she  said  graciously. 
"It'll  be  bedtime  soon." 

Jerry  sat  down,  still  watching.  The  widow's  face  was  a 
study ;  it  was  so  round,  and  there  were  so  many  chins.  Jerry 
counted  four,  and  a  baby  one;  the  creases,  too,  were  wonder- 
ful. It  was  quite  interesting  to  watch  them  smooth  out  here, 
only  to  pucker  up  there.  And  soon,  too,  another  phenomenon 
occurred.  The  loose,  flabby  mouth  relaxed  and  fell  open,  the 
expressionless  blue  eyes  winked  and  blinked,  then  closed, 
opened  slowly  once  or  twice,  then  closed  again ;  a  gentle  puffing 
sound  came,  growing  in  intensity.  Jerry,  never  having  seen 
anyone  but  daddy  asleep,  watched  in  fascinated  wonder  and 
awe.  Gradually,  as  he  watched,  the  things  in  the  room  began 
to  take  life.  He  could  see  dim  faces  in  them,  which  no  doubt 
were  real  and  could  only  be  seen  at  night.  There  was  a  fat, 
bow-legged  curving  chair,  which  he  was  sure  had  once  been  an 
old  gentleman.  The  little  square,  velvet-covered  cushion,  on 
which  the  widow's  feet,  clad  in  bulging,  elastic  side  boots, 
rested,  was,  no  doubt,  a  small  busy  woman,  and  a  big  shape- 
less ottoman  could  only  have  been  a  thumping  farm  lass,  some- 
thing like  Sally  at  the  inn.  The  iron  shovel  and  poker  were 
enchanted  ladies,  so  slender  and  elegant  were  they. 

Faces  met  him  everywhere,  and  as  the  twilight  fell,  they 
peered  at  him  from  shadowy  corners,  from  the  wide  open 
chimney;  and  the  widow's  clothes,  hanging  behind  the  door, 
became  living  things,  with  the  shape  of  nothing  that  had  ever 
lived. 

Jerry  sat  without  stirring,  almost  without  breathing.     It 


The  Witch's  Cottage  39 

was  not  exactly  fear  that  he  felt,  only  the  consciousness  was 
forcing  itself  upon  him  more  and  more  every  minute,  that  it 
really  was  a  witch's  cottage,  and  all  that  happened  was  magic. 
Perhaps,  if  he  were  very  good  indeed,  she  wouldn't  change 
him  into  anything.  He  would  try  to  please  her,  and  just  as 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  a  loud  "H-r-r-r"  sent  his  heart  to 
his  mouth. 

"H-r-r-r,"  went  the  witch.  "H-r-r-r—"  and  then  suddenly 
such  a  long  "H-r-r-r,"  that  Jerry,  in  spite  of  himself,  started 
up,  and  the  widow  awoke. 

"Dear  me,  I  must  have  been  asleep.  Have  you  been  there 
all  the  time,  little  boy  ?" 

"Yes,  m'am,"  said  Jerry.    The  creases  puckered  up. 

"I'm  glad  you're  a  quiet  little  boy.  I  don't  like  noisy  chil- 
dren." 

"No,  m'am." 

"And  now,  since  you've  been  so  good,  you  may  bring  me 
my  slippers.  They're  in  the  corner." 

She  put  the  toe  of  a  foot  to  the  heel  of  the  other,  gave  a 
long  pull,  and  the  elastic  side  boot  flew  off;  repeating  the 
process  with  the  other,  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"You  may  put  them  on,  little  boy;  and  stand  the  others 
in  the  corner."  Jerry  hastened  to  obey — he  knew  now  that 
to  please  the  witch  he  must  be  quiet  and  do  her  bidding. 

"Now  you  may  go  to  bed,  little  boy ;  you  won't  want  a  can- 
dle. There's  light  enough  to  undress  by." 

Jerry  obeyed,  hesitating  for  a  moment.  Was  it  necessary 
to  kiss  the  widow?  He  stole  a  glance.  She  had  subsided 
into  the  chair  again,  and  with  a  thankful  feeling,  he  climbed 
the  narrow  staircase.  He  didn't  really  think  he  could  have 
kissed  a  witch. 

So  the  summer  night  stole  on.  A  great,  horned  moon 
rose  low  on  the  horizon.  It  rose  till  it  was  level  with  Church 
Clock. 

"Church  Clock,  Church  Clock,"  it  cried,  "are  you  still  watch- 
ing?" Church  Clock  relaxed  its  gravity  and  smiled. 


40  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  always  watch,"  he  said.  "I'm  watching  two  little  lives 
now — so  young,  so  tender,  and  one  so  full  of  trouble." 

"But  it  will  pass,"  cried  the  Moon. 

"Yes,  it  will  pass,"  answered  Church  Clock  gravely;  "but 
the  trouble  of  a  child,  and  the  trouble  of  a  woman,  are  the 
saddest  things  on  earth,  for  no  one  knows  it  except  themselves 
and  the  wise  ones  watching." 

"Like  you  and  me,  friend,"  whispered  the  Moon.  "Yes, 
I  know,  I've  seen  them — women  and  children — in  poor  homes, 
in  palaces,  in  noisy  streets,  in  quiet  corners,  and  it's  true — it's 
true.  A  child's  sorrow  and  a  woman's  sorrow  is  sorrow  in- 
deed. Show  me  these  children,  Church  Clock,  and  we  will 
watch  together." 

So  they  peeped  through  the  narrow  garret  window  where 
Jerry  lay. 

"Did  he  say  his  prayers  ?"  asked  the  Moon  anxiously.  "Did 
he  say,  'Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep'  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Church  Clock,  "I  don't  let  him  forget  his 
prayers.  When  I  strike  I  say,  'Jerry  boy — Prayers!'  When 
I  strike  in  the  morning,  I  shall  say,  'Don't  forget  to  wash, 
Jerry.' "  The  Moon  listened  gravely. 

"If  he  says  his  prayers  and  keeps  himself  clean,  he  won't 
come  to  much  harm.  Now  for  the  other." 

They  peeped  into  the  little  dimity  hung  room,  so  white  and 
sweet-smelling.  The  unruly  mop  of  curls  made  a  shining  spot 
on  the  snowy  pillows ;  the  little  busy  hands  and  feet  were  quiet 
now,  and  the  sparkling  eyes  closed.  Church  Clock  smiled  as 
he  struck  out  midnight,  and  the  Moon  winked  knowingly,  and 
gave  a  broad  grin  as  he  rose  higher  in  the  sky.  Down  below 
in  deep  dark  woods,  Pan  piped,  but  the  grass  on  the  mossy 
bank  was  short  that  night. 

"Pan's  showing  his  legs,"  whispered  the  fairies,  peeping  from 
foxgloves,  and  shivering;  "it's  not  our  turn."  And  from  be- 
hind the  trees,  fauns  and  satyrs  advanced  clumsily,  for  they 
knew  the  music  was  for  them  that  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

JERRY  GETS  A  CHARM   BUT  LOSES  THE  BROWNIE  FAIRY 

THE  dawn  was  dimly  faint  in  the  east  when  the  widow 
called  Jerry. 

"You  can  get  a  piece  of  bread  and  cheese,  little  boy,"  she 
said  through  the  keyhole;  "it's  in  the  larder."  The  heavy 
footsteps  rambled  away,  and  Jerry  jumped  out  of  bed.  He 
began  to  dress,  but  surely  the  buttons  had  multiplied  in  the 
night — he  never  remembered  having  so  many.  And  yet  the 
buttonholes  seemed  to  have  grown  fewer.  After  much  fum- 
bling, a  few  clothes  got  into  their  places,  and  Church  Clock 
struck  four.  He  remembered  that  he  must  wash,  and  looked 
round  for  the  basin  and  ewer.  But  there  was  nothing  like 
them.  What  should  he  do?  To  wake  a  witch  was  out  of  the 
question.  Perhaps  if  he  finished  dressing  he  might  find  some 
place  downstairs.  He  put  on  his  trousers,  buckled  the  long 
belted  tunic  over,  brushed  his  hair,  and  then,  kneeling  down, 
said  a  "Hail  Mary." 

How  the  stairs  creaked.  The  dawn  was  breaking  as  he 
pushed  open  the  kitchen  door.  It  was  warm  and  filled  with 
shadows,  but  the  faces  were  no  longer  there — only  the  remem- 
brances of  yesterday  hung  around.  The  stir  and  bustle  of  to- 
day would  sweep  them  into  the  past. 

He  prowled  round,  and  in  the  back'us  found  a  sink  and 
a  pitcher  of  water.  There  was  also  a  tin  basin  and  a  piece 
of  soap — altogether  a  lucky  find.  Having  washed,  came  an 
adventurous  hunt  for  food.  He  opened  several  doors,  each 
time  with  a  beating  heart — you  never  know  what  you  may  find 
behind  the  doors  in  a  witch's  house.  But  there  was  nothing 
out  of  the  common.  True,  in  a  cupboard,  stood  a  tall  birch 
broom ;  that,  no  doubt,  was  the  broomstick  she  used  to  fly  on. 

41 


42  When  Pan  Pipes 

He  closed  the  door,  yet,  so  brave  was  he  with  the  happiness 
of  the  day,  that  the  thought  came,  suppose  if  he  were  very, 
very  good,  would  she  take  him  with  her?  It  was  a  very  long 
broom — quite  long  enough  for  two,  when  one  was  a  little  boy 
of  seven. 

At  last  the  larder  was  reached,  cool  and  dim,  a  larder  and 
dairy  combined.  In  an  earthenware  pan  dwelt  the  bread,  and 
under  a  cover  Jerry  found  cheese.  After  that,  rested  and  fed, 
everything  was  easy. 

He  knew  better  than  to  go  out  by  the  front  door.  Just  lift 
the  latch  of  the  back'us  door,  in  the  country,  and  there  you 
are — by  day  or  night.  The  meadows  and  woods  were  dark 
and  mysterious  in  the  shadowy  dawn.  Faint  lights  in  the  sky 
gave  a  weird,  spectral  effect;  the  trees  stood  motionless.  Si- 
lence, such  as  Jerry  had  never  known,  and  the  sense  of  adven- 
ture, slightly  tempered  by  awe,  increased.  A  bird  chirruped 
drowsily  somewhere,  but  a  rustle  in  the  pig-sty  put  mystery 
to  flight,  and  he  made  his  way  to  the  front  of  the  cottage. 

Here  the  flowers  were  still  sleeping.  Dew-drenched  roses 
hung  heavy  heads ;  crimson  cloves  lay  against  their  grey-green 
leaves  >  the  mignonette  had  closed,  the  daisies  were  tightly 
shut;  only  the  lilies,  "Our  Lady's  flowers,"  stood  tall  and 
straight,  and  Jerry  stopped  to  poke  his  nose  into  their  golden 
hearts. 

Through1  the  gate,  into  the  still  dark  lane,  up  the  grassy 
dew-wet  way,  over  the  tree  roots.  Birds,  asleep  in  their  nests, 
nettles,  weeds  and  drowsy  flowers  in  the  ditch  below,  waited 
the  sun's  call  to  waken.  Silence,  darkness,  bits  of  light  here 
and  there,  now  rosy  tinted.  Out  of  the  lane,  over  a  stile, 
across  the  meadow,  and  there  was  the  farm.  Curling  blue 
smoke  wreathed  down  to  meet  the  little  figure,  Betty  and 
Margery  half  way  across  to  meet  him,  and  Jerry  was  there! 
Oh!  the  sense  of  warmth — of  comfort — of  home. 

The  farmer,  busily  eating  his  breakfast,  waved  a  cheerful 
knife  by  way  of  greeting,  Mrs.  Chubbe,  with  a  kiss,  lifted  him 
over  the  settle,  and  Betty,  her  tongue  going,  as  her  aunt 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  43 

said,  "Nineteen  to  the  dozen,"  climbed  in  beside  him.  To- 
gether they  attacked  the  big  bowls  of  rich,  creamy  bread  and 
milk,  for  which  Jerry,  in  spite  of  the  casual  larder  feast,  was 
ready,  and  then,  through  twisting,  uneven  passages,  to  the 
yard  where  Dickon,  the  farm  boy,  with  many  a  "Whoa  there !" 
and  "Stan'  still,  lass !"  was  putting  the  mare  in. 

Mrs.  Chubbe,  assisted  by  Jenny  and  Sally,  brought  out 
pound  after  pound  of  sweet  butter,  shining  yellow  through 
their  thin  muslin  coverings,  baskets  of  brown  and  white  eggs, 
and  plump  chickens  with  long  limp  necks,  stiff  yellow  feet, 
and  bodies  icily  cold  even  at  midday  in  August.  All  these, 
with  much  talk  and  bustle,  were  packed  in  the  light,  spring 
cart.  There  was  much  protestation  in  the  shape  of  creaking 
and  groaning  from  the  little  cart  as  the  farmer  climbed  up, 
as  though  it  said,  "I  can't  really  carry  you;  I  can't,  I  really 
can't,"  then  with  a  last  jerk,  "Though  if  I  must,  I  must.  What ! 
another — "  as  Margery  got  in,  and  Betty  and  Jerry  were  lifted 
up  behind,  with  stern  injunctions  to  keep  their  feet  well  out 
and  not  to  kick  the  butter. 

"Noo,"  said  the  farmer,  tightening  the  reins,  "ready's  the 
word;  good-bye,  missus."  The  mare  pricked  up  her  head — 
lifted  her  feet ;  but  a  scream  from  Mrs.  Chubbe  arrested  mat- 
ters. 

"What  noo?"  said  the  farmer  under  his  breath,  sticking 
the  whip  in  its  socket,  and  turning  to  look.  His  wife,  with 
a  frantic  wave  of  her  hand,  which,  being  interpreted,  meant 
"Wait!"  vanished  into  the  house,  returning  presently  with  a 
rush  basket,  which  she  handed  up  to  her  husband. 

"Them's  the  apricots  for  Mrs.  Plumtre ;  Jenny  tells  me  their 
tree  don't  bear  this  year.  An'  mind  an'  not  forget  it,  master; 
you're  a  rare  hand  at  forgettin'  when  you  get  to  market."  The 
farmer  smiled  broadly,  lifted  the  basket,  and  winked  slowly  and 
meaningly  at  Margery.  Mrs.  Chubbe  caught  it. 

"Ah!  you  can  wink.  If  you'd  got  a  half  of  what  I  have 
to  think  on,  I'll  warrant  you'd  forget.  An'  after  all — 'twasn't 
forgot,"  she  added  triumphantly. 


!44  When  Pan  Pipes 

Once  more  the  farmer  cl-clicked;  once  more  mare  Kitty 
tossed  her  head,  and  put  her  best  foot  foremost.  Over  the 
cobble-tiled  yard,  round  the  gateposts  they  skimmed,  Jerry 
and  Betty  holding  on  for  dear  life,  into  the  broad  high  road 
which  led  to  great  cities,  even  to  the  sea.  The  farmer  shook 
his  head,  sighed  ponderously,  and  murmured  thoughtfully,  yet 
with  a  whimsical  twist  of  his  mouth,  "Wimmen — wimmen — " 

How  the  cart  flew  along!  White,  inch  deep  dust  whirled 
and  scattered,  adding  yet  another  layer  to  the  choking  hedges. 
There  was  no  lack  of  company.  Farm  waggons,  containing 
coops  of  live  hens  or  geese  ready  for  fattening;  here  and 
there  a  horse  or  pony,  tethered  behind,  trotted  head  down, 
doubtless  wondering  who  would  be  its  next  master. 

But  for  the  most  part,  the  road  was  occupied  by  gigs  and 
light  carts,  like  the  farmer's  own,  filled  with  buxom  house 
wives  intent  on  a  day  of  business,  combined  with  pleasure; 
shy  rosy-faced  lassies,  with  Heaven  knows  what  anticipation 
in  their  innocent  hearts;  for  on  a  market  day  the  merry  gods 
scatter  adventures  broadcast,  and  any  moment  a  King  Cophetua 
may  arise  and  bear  off  a  beggar  maid.  So  the  road  was  gay 
that  August  morning,  and  the  farmer,  between  frisky  Kitty 
and  neighbourly  salutations,  had  his  hands  full.  Even  Margery 
plucked  up  heart  and  smiled,  while  Jerry,  all  trouble  thrown  to 
the  wind  for  the  time,  relaxed  from  solemnity,  even  laugh- 
ing outright  at  some  of  Betty's  sallies.  Betty's  tongue  went 
as  fast  as  Kitty's  feet,  which  is  saying  much.  So  the  eight 
miles  flew  by,  and  it  was  yet  early  morning  when  they  clat- 
tered into  the  market  town  of  Channington.  The  clock  over 
the  town  hall  was  striking  the  hour;  such  a  bustle  and  con- 
fusion— narrow,  cobble-paved  streets  filled  with  vehicles — and 
echoing  voices — men's  voices,  women's  voices,  voices  shrill 
and  loud,  voices  gentle  and  sweet,  gruff  voices,  harsh  voices, 
the  high  pipe  of  children,  the  rippling  laughter  of  maidens — 
all  sorts  of  voices  chattered  and  babbled,  rose  and  fell,  as 
Kitty  dropped  to  a  walking  pace  and  joined  the  procession  to 
the  Swan,  Channington's  hostelry  and  coaching  inn. 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  45 

The  house  itself  was  of  white  stone,  standing  slightly  back 
from  the  road,  with  doors  and  windows  scattered  promis- 
cuously about  it.  It  dated  from  Elizabeth,  but  had  been 
added  to  here  and  altered  there,  till  little  was  left  to  mark  the 
date.  On  one  side  a  wide  entrance  leading  to  the  yard  was 
spanned  by  an  arch,  and  under  this  the  line  of  vehicles  slowly 
moved. 

The  noise  and  bustle  of  the  street  were  as  peace  compared 
with  those  of  the  yard.  Ostlers  and  grooms  ran  to  and  fro, 
unharnessing,  baiting — for  some  of  the  horses  had  come  many 
miles — and  wheeling  away  light  carts.  Men,  awaiting  assist- 
ance, shouted  to  each  other,  or  called  impatiently  for  someone 
to  take  their  horses.  Women  and  children  alighted  and  saun- 
tered to  the  entrance,  where  they  awaited  their  lords.  Porters 
carried  merchandise  to  the  market  stalls;  horses  neighed  and 
whinnied,  pawing  the  ground  impatiently;  and  from  the  low 
gallery,  running  round  three  sides  and  used  for  the  loading 
and  unloading  of  the  coaches,  those  inside  the  inn  talked  tc 
their  friends  below,  exchanging  impressions  of  the  day,  the 
chances  of  business,  and  social  gossip. 

Outside  the  arch  an  ever  shifting  crowd  of  loafers  hung 
around,  some  on  the  lookout  for  a  job,  but  for  the  most  part 
idlers,  ripe  for  sport,  sight-seeing,  mischief,  or  anything  that 
might  turn  up.  And  to  this  medley  of  humanity  the  light 
cart  added  its  occupants.  Farmer  Chubbe,  landlord  of  the 
Cloudesley  Arms  and  large  farmer  to  boot,  was,  as  things 
went,  a  man  of  standing  in  the  neighbourhood.  A  couple 
of  stablemen  hastened  to  his  assistance.  Throwing  the  reins 
to  them  he  climbed  out,  helped  Margery  to  descend,  and  lifted 
the  children  to  the  ground. 

Betty's  dark  eyes  sparkled  with  delight.  The  noise,  the 
gaiety,  appealed  strongly  to  her  passionate  nature;  her  feet 
twitched  restlessly,  the  colour  came  and  went,  and  she  pulled 
her  uncle's  hand  impatiently. 

"Softly,  softly,  Betty  wench,"  he  smiled  down  at  her,  "the 
day's  young  yet.  Well,  then,  Mrs.  Marvin,  you'll  be  back  by 


46  When  Pan  Pipes 

nine.  The  coach  is  due  to  leave  at  the  half  hour.  We'll  walk 
together  as  far  as  town  hall." 

So  they  started,  all  four  of  them;  the  children  hand  in 
hand,  following  the  older  folk,  turned  down  a  side  street, 
and  wending  their  way  through  the  pushing,  jostling,  good- 
humoured  crowd,  were,  within  three  minutes,  in  the  market 
place;  indeed,  the  back  windows  of  the  Swan  looked  directly 
down  upon  the  wide  square.  And  here  was,  indeed,  a  sight 
to  make  Betty's  gay  little  heart  rejoice. 

The  town  hall,  breathing  dignity,  and  holding  secrets  of 
wonderful  doings  therein — balls,  assemblies,  and  gatherings 
of  all  sorts — stood  in  its  midst.  Underneath,  on  one  side, 
was  the  covered  market  place,  cool  and  shady — a  fitting  place 
on  a  hot  day  for  butter,  cream,  poultry,  and  perishable  articles. 
Outside,  where  the  stalls,  at  this  time  of  the  day  comparatively 
empty,  stood  thick  as  blackberries  on  a  hedge,  and  their  own- 
ers chattered,  whispered  and  worked — where  sober  farmers 
gathered  in  little  knots,  their  sample  bags  in  their  hands,  their 
horny  palms  holding  specimens  of  the  contents,  heads  close 
together  and  only  a  word  now  and  again — outside  was  all  fun, 
and  Betty  clutched  her  companion's  hand  in  a  little  hot,  excited 
clasp. 

The  farmer  brought  up.  "Well,  missis,  we'll  see  you  later." 
Margery  nodded. 

"Come,  Master  Jerry  dear,  come  with  Margie." 

Jerry  obeyed;  Betty  was  dear,  but  Margery  more  so.  This 
last  hour  was  just  for  themselves.  Betty  transferred  her  hand 
to  her  uncle's,  who  was  already  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  prices. 
"Don't  be  long,  Jerry,"  she  called  after  them;  "it'll  be  such 
fun  soon." 

They  crossed  the  square,  turned  down  an  alley  shaded  by 
great  trees  in  the  gardens  behind  the  walls,  past  the  old  church 
and  churchyard,  and  came  into  a  smaller  square,  where  quiet 
houses  lay  on  either  side.  In  one  corner  was  a  newer  build- 
ing, and  to  this  Margery  led  the  way.  She  passed  through  the 
tiny  gate,  pushed  open  a  heavy  door,  and  another  atmosphere 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  47 

greeted  them — an  atmosphere  of  dimness,  perfume,  and  shafts 
of  dancing  sunshine,  of  marbles,  stained  windows  and  flicker- 
ing light ;  of  muffled  footsteps,  whispering  voices  and  echoes. 
It  was  nothing  new  to  Jerry ;  he  dipped  a  fat  forefinger  into  the 
stone  basin  outside,  and  touched  himself  in  the  sign  of  the 
Cross ;  inside  he  made  obeisance  in  orthodox  fashion. 

"Sit  down,  dearie,"  whispered  Margery,  "an'  wait  for  me. 
I'll  not  be  long.  Father  Andrew  expects  me." 

She  found  him  a  comfortable  seat  in  one  of  the  pews,  and 
disappeared  into  the  confessional  box.  Jerry  sat  very  still; 
as  still  as  in  the  witch's  kitchen,  but  with  very  different  feel- 
ings. There  was  no  fear  now,  only  a  holy  awe.  The  figures 
in  their  niches,  Our  Lady  from  her  altar,  looked  down  with 
gentle  eyes,  and  little  boy  as  he  was,  Jerry  had  the  true  Cath- 
olic's sense  of  intimate  family  relations  with  the  Saints  and 
the  Holy  Mother — the  feeling  of  home — in  their  dwelling  place. 
And  for  him  there  was  that  no  longer,  for  who  could  call  a 
witch's  cottage,  home? 

Sweet  breath  of  incense  stirred  the  air,  the  far  off  dron- 
ing inside  the  wooden  erection  ceased,  a  door  opened  and 
Margery  came  out.  Her  face  was  serious,  but  happier  than 
before ;  there  was  rest  in  it. 

"It  does  a  body  good,"  she  said,  as  Jerry  scrambled  to  his 
feet,  "to  confess  her  sins  and  get  absolution.  An'  now,  my 
dearie,  we'll  make  an  offering  to  the  blessed  St.  Monica,  an' 
perhaps  she'll  keep  an  eye  on  you." 

Jerry's  little  feet  clattered  over  the  marble  floor  of  the 
Chapel  of  the  Dedication,  waking  the  echoes,  till  they  reached 
the  altar  where  the  gleaming  candles  burned  like  stars,  and 
the  porphyry  and  alabaster,  jacinth  and  lapis  lazuli  glowed  like 
a  painter's  palette  newly  wet.  For  the  Chapel  of  St.  Monica 
was  a  gift  from  Edward,  loth  Earl  of  Cloudesley,  and  noth- 
ing had  been  spared  in  its  decoration. 

Margery  dropped  her  money  into  the  box,  took  a  candle, 
and  lighting  it  from  another,  set  it  on  a  spike.  Then,  to- 
gether, they  knelt  before  the  altar,  and  Margery  put  up  a 


48  When  Pan  Pipes 

petition,  while  Jerry,  with  hands  clasped,  gazed  into  the  beau- 
tiful face,  and  wondered  if  she  was  anything  like  daddy's 
fairy.  She,  too,  was  in  white,  and  her  name  began  with  an 
M.  He  was  sure  of  that,  although  his  literary  accomplishments 
were  at  present  confined  to  words  of  three  letters.  Another 
pause  before  the  high  altar,  and  then  Margery  sat  down  in  a 
side  pew,  and  drew  him  very  close. 

"Master  Jerry,  my  dearie,  there's  something  I've  got  to 
say  to  you.  If  God  an'  the  blessed  Saints  are  willing,  I'll 
be  back  in  a  year,  but  there's  always  the  chance  against  it, 
'specially  in  a  country  where  they'd  as  lief  scalp  your  head 
as  look  at  you.  So,  lovey,  if  I  don't  come  back  quite  as  soon 
as  I  expected,  remember  you're  a  gentleman,  an'  that  you 
mustn't  say  naughty  words,  nor  do  bad  things,  an'  that  daddy 
and  the  angels  are  watching  you.  You'll  try,  Master  Jerry, 
my  dearie,  won't  you  ?" 

The  wrinkled,  rosy  face  was  working,  and  when  the  child 
put  his  arms  round  her  and  pressed  his  warm  lips  and  cheeks 
to  hers,  the  tears  rolled  down  unrestrained. 

"Don't  cry,  Margie,  darling.  I  will  be  good.  I  will — I  will. 
I  promise.  I  promised  daddy,  and  now  I  promise  you.  Oh, 
Margie,  don't  cry." 

She  held  him  closer  for  a  few  minutes,  then  put  the  clinging 
arms  from  her,  and  smiled  again. 

"There,  Margie's  a  silly  old  woman,  isn't  she?  Why,  this 
time  next  year  we'll  all  be  together  again,  won't  we,  my  dearie  ? 
An'  now,  Master  Jerry,"  her  tone  changed,  she  was  once  more 
the  everyday  Margery,  "there's  something  your  daddy  told  me 
to  give  to  you — something — "  she  was  busy  fumbling  in  the 
big  pocket  worn  under  the  brown  linsey  skirt ;  "yes,  here  it  is." 

It  was  a  small  linen  bag,  containing  something  hard,  and 
attached  to  a  long  cord.  This  she  slipped  over  the  child's 
neck,  tucking  it  safely  in. 

"Master  Jerry,"  she  said  solemnly,  "don't  you  ever  part 
with  it — an'  don't  take  it  off  except  to  wash.  An'  it's  not 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  49 

to  be  opened  till  you're  twenty.  See,  it's  sealed,  with  your 
daddy's  big  seal." 

Jerry  gazed  at  the  funny  little  parcel,  at  the  big  splash  of 
red,  and  the  cabalistic  lettering.  Margery  went  on. 

"There's  a  bit  of  the  true  cross  inside  as  well;  I  begged 
it  from  Father  Andrew  last  time  I  was  here.  It'll  keep  you 
safe,  my  dearie.  An'  now,  we  must  go ;  Town  Clock's  strik- 
ing the  quarter." 

Out  into  the  quiet  square,  down  the  sun-flecked  alley,  into 
the  hustle-bustle  of  the  busy  market  place.  Things  had  pro- 
gressed since  they  left ;  the  stalls  were  set  out ;  a  Cheap  Jack 
was  giving  his  first  demonstration,  and  all  was  ready  for  the 
day. 

In  the  street  leading  to  the  Swan  they  found  the  farmer 
and  Betty ;  Betty  in  a  state  of  wild  excitement.  She  flew  to 
meet  them. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  Jerry,  there's  a  circus  and  a  giddy-go-round, 
and  Uncle  Matt  says  he'll  take  us  when — when — "  she  hesi- 
tated, sobering  slightly  at  the  remembrance  of  the  coming 
parting,  "I  mean,  in  the  afternoon.  You'll  like  that,  Jerry, 
won't  you?" 

Jerry  nodded;  at  any  other  time  he  would  have  responded 
readily,  but  now  the  time  was  getting  so  short.  He  clung 
tightly  to  Margery  as  they  entered  the  inn,  for  through  the 
red-curtained  window  of  the  parlour  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  coach  standing  in  the  yard,  ready,  it  seemed  to  him,  to  trap 
his  only  friend  and  carry  her  away.  There  were  others  wait- 
ing; passengers  snatching  a  hasty  meal  before  proceeding  on 
their  journey,  market  folk  eating  bread  and  cheese.  An  ordi- 
nary was  served  at  midday,  but  from  three  to  twelve  noon 
is  a  long  time  for  hungry,  working  people.  A  rosy-cheeked 
serving  maid  answered  the  summons,  and  the  farmer  gave  his 
orders. 

"Pint  o'  home-brewed,  a  loaf,  an'  a  bit  o'  old  Cheshire; 
that's — "  he  tapped  himself  jocularly.  "Cake'n  milk  for  the 


50  When  Pan  Pipes 

little  'uns,  an'  for  you,  missis  ?"  he  turned  to  Margery — she  hes- 
itated for  a  moment,  and  the  farmer  turned  again. 

"She'll  have  a  glass  o'  the  same  as  me.  Best  in  all  the 
county,  missis,  you  can  take  my  word;  Mrs.  Plumtre  knows 
her  business,  an'  here  she  is,  herself."  A  short,  plump,  bus- 
tling woman  entered  and  seized  the  farmer's  hand. 

"Well,  farmer,  an'  how  be  ye  the  day?  An'  Missis  Mar- 
vin, good  soul,  I'm  fair  glad  to  see  you.  An'  how's  the  missis  ? 
Will  ye  thank  her  for  the  apricots,  an'  tell  her  they  came  like 
flowers  in  May.  Just  what  I  was  a-wantin',  for  apricots  be 
queer  things ;  they'll  bear  bushels  for  two,  three  year,  an'  then 
never  a  one,  an'  that's  ours  this  summer.  An'  how's  little 
miss?  Come  an'  give  Auntie  Plumtre  a  kiss."  She  gathered 
Betty  in  her  arms  and  administered  a  sounding  smack.  Betty 
returned  it  demurely,  then,  safe  sheltered  behind  her  uncle's 
broad  back,  wiped  her  cheek  and  made  a  grimace  to  Jerry, 
nearly  upsetting  his  gravity.  She  liked  Mrs.  Plumtre,  but  her 
mode  of  salutation  was  not  altogether  to  Miss  Betty's  taste. 
Of  this,  however,  the  good  woman  knew  nothing. 

"An'  this  is  the  little  boy  who's  going  to  live  with  Widow 
Hagges,  I  suppose.  The  father's  gone,  I  hear,"  she  added 
in  an  undertone  to  Margery.  "Well,  well — in  the  midst  of 
life  we're  in  death,  so  parson  says,  an*  never  a  truer  word. 
Poor  child,  poor  child."  She  sat  down  and  lifted  Jerry  to 
her  knee. 

"You're  a  big  boy  to  be  nursed,  laddie,  I'm  thinkin';  but  I 
nursed  my  own  boy  till  he  was  bigger'n  you  by  two  years." 

"Have  you  got  a  little  boy,  m'am  ?"  Jerry  asked  interestedly. 

"No,  my  dear;  leastways,  not  now.  He's  a  grown  man, 
an'  he's  gone  to  Lunnon,  an'  to  see  the  world.  But  there," 
suddenly  remembering,  she  put  him  down,  "I'm  keepin'  you 
all.  Come  along  wi'  me,  out  o'  the  crowd.  Sally — "  the  rosy 
maid  curtseyed,  "bring  Farmer  Chubbe's  orders  to  the  sitting- 
room." 

She  led  the  way  across  passages  newly  sanded  for  the  day, 
through  rooms,  filled,  it  seemed  to  Jerry,  with  people  and 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  51 

furniture,  bustle  and  noise,  into  a  quiet  room  looking  out 
on  one  side  to  the  market  place,  while  on  the  other  was  a 
small  window,  through  which  yard-proceedings  could  be 
watched. 

"Sit  ye  down,  sit  ye  down,"  she  said  hospitably,  "an'  make 
a  good  meal.  Ye'll  be  tired,  Mrs.  Marvin,  I'm  thinkin',  afore 
you  reach  Lunnon." 

"Aye,  that  she  will,"  put  in  the  farmer.  "She'll  get  her 
dinner  at  Chedham ;  coach  stops  at  the  King's  Head." 

"An'  a  rare  good  house  'tis,"  replied  the  landlady.  "Joe 
Denson  knows  how  to  serve  a  good  dinner — never  a  better — 
but  he  can't  beat  my  ale;  he  says  so  hisself.  'How  d'ye  do 
it,  Mrs.  Plumtre?'  says  he,  for  he  travels  this  way  once  a 
year;  'when  you're  wantin'  a  job,'  says  he,  'you  come  to  me. 
I'll  take  you  on  for  the  brewin'.'  " 

The  farmer  assented  cordially  and  the  meal  went  on,  well 
seasoned  with  the  landlady's  gossip.  Betty  and  Jerry  were 
silent ;  Jerry  from  nature,  and  Betty  because,  naughty  puss  as 
she  was,  she  knew  her  manners,  and  to  speak  at  meals  before 
grown-up  folk  was  a  sin  worthy  of  the  decalogue.  A  stir  out- 
side roused  them.  Mrs.  Plumtre  peered  through  the  little  win- 
dow, and  Jerry  slid  his  hand  into  Margery's. 

"They're  putting  the  horses  to  an'  Danel's  finishing  his 
bread  an'  cheese  in  the  parlour.  Happen  ye'd  like  a  wash, 
m'am ;  'twould  freshen  you  a  bit." 

Jerry  clung  to  Margery's  hand  and  together  they  followed 
their  guide  upstairs.  Oh,  the  intricacies  of  that  ancient  place ! 
The  winding  passages,  uneven  floors,  stairs  here,  stairs  there, 
leading  to  still  more  rooms  and  passages.  They  reached  their 
haven  at  last ;  the  cool,  sober  room,  with  its  great  four-poster 
hung  with  drab  moreen,  trimmed  fantastically  with  black  vel- 
vet. High  presses  of  rich  red  mahogany  stood  around,  the 
only  relief  being  a  dressing  table,  gaily  draped  with  muslin 
over  pink  cambric,  concealing  a  deep  box  drawer.  A  won- 
derful room,  thought  Jerry,  used  to  cheerless  London  bed- 
rooms or  cheap  lodging-houses.  And  the  water  from  the  pretty 


52  When  Pan  Pipes 

red  ewer  seemed  somehow  fresher  than  water  usually  was. 

The  confusion  in  the  yard  was  greater  than  ever;  in  the 
midst  of  it  they  found  the  farmer.  The  horses  were  in;  a 
few  belated  parcels  caused  much  commotion.  Passengers  stood 
about;  those  who  had  already  journeyed,  with  a  nonchalant 
air,  the  fresh  ones  busy  giving  and  taking  last  messages. 

The  little  group  were  silent — tongue-tied  when  it  came  to 
the  last;  only  Jerry's  clasp  tightened,  and  he  laid  his  cheek 
against  the  dear  hand  he  held.  Margery  struggled  against 
appearances,  then  gave  in,  and,  big  boy  as  he  was,  lifted  him 
in  her  arms  and  held  him  closely.  Out  of  the  inn  came  a 
jovial,  burly  personage,  booted,  gaitered,  and  clad  in  a  coat 
of  many  capes  and  pockets.  It  was  open  now  for  comfort, 
showing  glimpses  of  bright  waistcoat  beneath.  A  beaver  hat 
surrounded  the  round  genial  face,  weather  beaten  and  burnt 
to  a  glorious  brick  red. 

He  finished  the  contents  of  a  glistening  pewter  pot  on  the 
threshold;  then,  handing  it  to  an  ostler,  wiped  his  mouth  on 
the  back  of  a  huge,  hairy  paw,  drew  out  a  silver  watch  the 
size  of  a  turnip,  and  entered  the  yard.  Then  indeed  was 
bustle.  Grooms  at  the  horses'  heads,  ladders  behind,  at  either 
side  of  the  coach,  passengers  mounting,  then  remembering 
something  left,  dismounting,  encountering  other  passengers 
coming  up — old  passengers,  young  passengers,  thin  ones  who 
tripped  gaily  up,  fat  ones  who  required  pushing  and  pulling, 
bags  and  baggage  still  arriving,  and  above  all,  the  din  of  voices. 

"That's  your  place,  Mrs.  Marvin,"  said  the  farmer,  "back 
in  the  middle,  an'  it's  time  you  mounted." 

There  was  a  dimness  in  the  farmer's  blue  eyes — even  Betty 
softened.  The  tears  ran  unchecked  down  Margery's  cheeks. 
Only  Jerry  was  calm.  He  nestled  his  head  against  her  shoul- 
der with  a  grave  look  in  his  brown  eyes;  something  seemed 
to  hurt  him  inside — like  the  clutch  of  a  cold  hand,  but  he  had 
no  desire  to  cry.  There  were  pitying  looks  cast  at  the  little 
group.  Farmer  Chubbe's  guests  were  well  known  by  hear- 
say. 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  53 

"Time's  up,  ladies  and  gents,"  said  Daniel.  "Take  your 
seats."  The  farmer  put  out  his  hand  and  took  Margery's, 
working  it  solemnly  up  and  down. 

"A  year's  soon  gone,  missis;  you'll  be  back  afore  you 
know  you're  gone."  She  nodded,  unable  to  speak;  then  bent, 
and  kissed  Betty  warmly.  But  her  voice  came  triumphantly  as 
she  clasped  the  child  she  held  still  closer. 

"Good-bye,  Master  Jerry — good-bye,  my  dearie — my  darlin'." 

A  last  kiss,  a  last  embrace,  and  the  farmer  took  him  from 
her  arms.  The  coach  swam  before  her.  Someone  lifted  her 
up;  kindly  passengers,  with  looks  of  pity,  made  room,  help- 
ing her  to  her  place.  Even  Daniel  gave  her  a  sympathising 
glance  as  he  looked  down  into  the  yard  to  see  that  all  was 
right ;  then  drew  the  reins  tighter.  The  conductor  mounted — 
Margery  smiled  down,  a  faint  wan  smile,  and  Jerry  smiled 
gravely  back. 

"Ready,  lads!"  The  grooms  leaped  back,  the  prancing 
horses,  fresh  from  their  night's  rest,  flew  like  the  wind. 
"Tantivy — tantivy!"  the  horn  sounded  its  merry  farewell; 
waving  handkerchiefs,  last  good-byes,  and  the  Comet  was  gone 
— round  the  corner,  into  a  dim  wonderful  region  called  the 
road  to  London.  It  was  over,  the  event  of  market  day. 
Ostlers  and  grooms  disappeared  as  by  magic,  loafers  strolled 
away,  friends  of  the  passengers  betook  themselves  to  other 
business.  In  a  few  minutes  the  yard  was  empty,  and  the  de- 
pressing silence  which  follows  excitement  fell.  Still  holding 
Jerry,  the  farmer  took  his  niece's  hand. 

"Come,  children,  let's  go  an'  have  a  look  round."  Betty's 
hopes  rose.  Surely  the  market  place  would  restore  Jerry 
to  his  usual  self;  for  there  was  something  different,  she  felt 
instinctively.  The  farmer  understood;  he  talked  to  Betty, 
and  let  the  tired  little  heart  rest  and  recover  itself.  It  was  not 
very  long  before  Jerry  roused  to  a  sense  of  his  dignity. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Chubbe,  I  think  I'll  get  down  now.  And1 
thank  you  very  much  for  carrying  me." 

"That's  a  brave  little  lad."    The  farmer  set  him  on  his  feet, 


54  When  Pan  Pipes 

pleased  to  see  the  signs  of  returning  interest.  "An'  now,  sup- 
pose we  go  an'  buy  some  lollipops,  an'  see  how  butter's  sellin'." 

Betty's  legs  capered  gleefully;  she  peered  round  her  uncle 
to  see  what  effect  the  announcement  had  on  Jerry,  and  her 
face  fell.  But  hardbake  and  sugar  sticks  are  wonderful  re- 
storatives, and  her  blithe  laugh  and  chattering  tongue  did  more 
to  rouse  Jerry  than  any  sympathy  from  older  folk. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  with  appetites  of  those  whose  conscience 
is  clear  and  health  rude,  they  went  back  to  the  Swan,  where 
roast  beef,  mellow  and  juicy,  with  vegetables  fresh  cut  from 
the  inn  garden,  were  served;  while  for  those  who  preferred 
daintier  fare  there  were  ducks,  who,  but  two  days  before,  had 
paddled  in  the  great  pond  and  strutted  about  the  yards.  Green 
peas  were  there  too,  with  monstrous  raspberry  and  currant 
pies,  black  currant  puddings,  lusciously  purple,  and  jugs  of 
thick  yellow  cream. 

Even  Jerry  was  hungry,  and  as  the  farmer  piled  his  plate 
with  good  things  he  looked  up  with  a  gravely  childish  smile 
which  went  straight  to  the  good  man's  heart.  After  dinner 
came  more  delights.  Out  on  the  green  were  swings  and 
merry-go-rounds.  On  this  last  Betty  would  fain  have  gone, 
greatly  to  the  disgust  of  Mrs.  Plumtre,  who  accompanied  them. 

"Fie  on  you,  little  miss,"  she  said  reprovingly,  "them's  for 
boys — not  for  nice  little  gals." 

But  the  circus  was  all  that  heart — even  Betty's — could  de- 
sire. Clowns,  fairies,  performing  animals,  all  complete,  and 
when  at  last  the  light  cart  was  brought  out,  Betty  gave  a  sigh 
of  pure  delight. 

"It's  been  the  most  beautifullest  day  in  all  my  life,"  she 
cried,  as  she  was  lifted  up. 

A  tired  little  boy  was  Jerry  when  they  arrived  at  Cloudes- 
ley.  How  he  wished  he  could  stay  with  Mr.  Chubbe  and 
Betty,  instead  of  moving  on  again.  So  much  had  happened 
since  he  got  out  of  bed  that  morning;  the  cottage  seemed 
like  a  dream  of  long  ago;  something  vague,  mysterious — 
there  was  nothing  human  about  it.  Had  a  Genie  passed  over 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  55 

the  farm,  carrying  off  the  cottage,  witch  and  all,  in  a  cloud 
of  smoke,  it  would  not  have  surprised  him  in  the  least.  But 
reality  drew  near.  After  the  homely  substantial  tea,  the  farmer 
rose. 

"Now,  laddie,  time  you're  off.  Widow'll  be  expectin'  you. 
Betty  wench,  you  can  go  to  the  top  of  the  lane  with  him." 

Over  the  fields,  where  the  setting  sun  hung  in  a  crimson 
glow  behind  a  low  misty  haze,  and  the  subtle,  indistinguishable 
scent  of  a  thousand  flowers  and  grasses  rose,  they  went  hand 
in  hand,  the  farmer  and  his  wife  watching  from  the  door. 

"Poor  Jerry,"  said  Betty  compassionately,  remembering, 
now  the  excitement  was  over,  her  companion's  trouble.  "But 
Mrs.  Marvin'll  soon  be  back,  won't  she?  She  said  so.  And 
I'm  so  glad  you  didn't  have  to  go  away  with  her,  'cos  now  we 
can  have  such  beautiful  games,  every  day,  can't  we?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jerry  dubiously.  He  was  not  at  all 
sure  what  might  be  expected  of  him.  Then,  as  things  began 
to  wear  a  more  cheerful  aspect,  "P'raps  she'll  let  me,  if  I'm 
a  very  good  little  boy.  I  hope  she  will." 

"Oh,  she  will  if  I  ask  her,"  said  Miss  Betty,  confident  of 
her  own  capability  to  cajole.  "I'll  come  and  fetch  you  on 
Sunday,  if  Aunt  Martha'll  let  me.  I'll  learn  my  hymn  and 
verses  quick." 

They  had  reached  the  last  stile ;  Betty  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him.  "Good-bye,  Jerry,"  she  cried,  run- 
ning off  with  the  heedlessness  of  childhood,  but  turning  sev- 
eral times  to  wave  her  hand  to  the  forlorn  little  figure  stand- 
ing by  the  stile. 

He  was  alone  now,  quite  alone;  except  for  the  witch  and 
the  cat,  and  the  bogie  things  which  dwelt  in  the  cottage  and 
made  faces  at  him.  For  a  few  minutes  he  watched  the  flit- 
ting white  form,  then  turned  with  a  heavy  sigh  and  climbed 
the  stile.  Before  him  lay  the  lane,  darkly  green  where  the 
fading  light  fell,  black  in  the  shadows,  and  Jerry's  small  heart 
beat  loudly,  and  his  feet  trotted  faster  as  each  fearful  place 
was  passed.  For  who  knew  what  might  lurk  behind  the  tree 


56  When  Pan  Pipes 

trunks,  or  in  deep  ditches.  On  the  other  hand — he  cheered 
himself  with  the  thought — good  fairies  lived  in  the  same  places. 
He  found  his  way  to  the  back  door  and  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  widow's  voice,  and  he  advanced  through 
the  kitchen.  Yes,  it  was  no  dream.  There  it  was,  just  the 
same  as  last  night.  The  widow  in  her  chair,  the  geraniums  on 
the  window  sill,  the  coppers  and  brasses  in  their  places — only 
the  widow  was  awake,  and  everything  else  asleep  or  pretending 
to  be. 

"So  you've  come  back,  little  boy,"  she  said  graciously. 

"Yes,  m'am." 

"An'  now,  before  you  go  to  bed,  you  can  draw  me  a  bucket 
of  water  from  the  well.  Did  you  find  the  pump  this  morning? 
I  forgot  to  show  you  last  night.  I  hope  you're  a  good  little 
boy,  and  wash  yourself  every  morning." 

Jerry's  heart  sank.  Was  he  expected  to  wash  at  the  pump  ? 
Farmer  Chubbe's  boys  did,  he  knew,  but  he,  Jerry,  who  had 
always  had  a  nice  basin  with  plenty  of  soap,  and  sometimes 
even  warm  water,  and  Margery's  gentle  hands  to  assist.  Be- 
sides, he  was  a  gentleman.  Margery  said  so,  and  gentlemen 
didn't  wash  at  pumps. 

On  the  other  hand,  daddy  said  it  didn't  matter  what  you 
did,  and  he  had  promised  Margery  to  wash,  and,  perhaps,  this 
carrying  much  weight,  there  was  the  need  to  propitiate  the 
witch.  The  colour  came  and  went  in  his  brown  face.  Then, 
child  as  he  was,  Jerry  made  up  his  mind.  He  would  wash  at 
the  pump. 

"Yes,  m'am."  The  widow  had  not  waited  for  the  answer, 
only  she  saw  the  hesitation. 

"You'll  find  the  pail  in  the  back'us;  wind  up  the  windlass 
and  fill  it." 

Out  into  the  yard  went  Jerry.  His  fat  little  hands  grasped 
the  handles,  and  with  a  great  effort  he  managed  to  move  the 
heavy  wheel.  After  that  it  was  easy,  and  there  was  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  boyish  delight  at  seeing  the  bucket  come  up, 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  57 

dripping  with  cold,  clear  water.  He  filled  his  pail,  and  carried 
it  with  both  hands  indoors. 

"That's  a  good  little  boy,"  said  the  widow,  "an'  now  you 
can  get  a  slice  of  bread  from  the  pantry  and  go  to  bed." 

He  was  not  hungry,  but  hardly  felt  sufficiently  at  home 
to  refuse  the  offer.  Having  got  the  bread,  he  said  "Good- 
night, m'am,"  and  climbed  the  stairs,  feeling  very  lonely, 
very  tired,  and  filled  with  a  longing  to  climb  into  someone's 
warm  arms  and  cry  away  the  bitter  heartache.  He  undressed, 
said  his  prayers,  and  got  into  bed.  Then  a  few  salt  tears 
came  creeping  up;  but  they  weren't  the  right  sort;  the  sort 
that  clear  away  aches;  moreover,  they  were  soon  over.  For 
a  little  while  he  lay  looking  out  on  to  the  dark  skies.  Then 
suddenly  came  a  dim  radiance,  growing  brighter  and  brighter. 
Above  the  window  sill  appeared  a  brilliant  golden  rim;  pres- 
ently a  great  laughing  yellow  face  looked  in,  and  all  the  world 
changed.  Jerry  almost  laughed  back,  then  raised  himself,  and 
behold,  just  beneath  the  window  frame,  peeped  another  friendly 
face.  He  sank  back  comforted,  and  almost  before  he  touched 
his  pillow,  was  fast  asleep. 

A  little  gentle  noise  roused  him  from  dreams — happy 
dreams,  in  which  daddy  played  games  and  told  stories;  in 
which  Margery,  Betty,  and  the  farmer  moved,  and  all  was 
merry  and  gay,  just  as  in  the  old  time.  With  waking  came 
reality  and  consciousness  of  troubled  loneliness.  The  cold 
grey  dawn  made  the  little  room  alive  with  shadows  of  waving 
trees  outside,  and  of  things  inside  which  cast  strange  and  fan- 
tastic shapes  on  the  walls.  Half  asleep,  half  awake,  he 
watched  them  change  into  their  ordinary  forms  as  the  light 
increased,  all  the  time  dimly  conscious  of  that  soft,  quiet 
movement.  What  could  it  be?  Very  cautiously  he  sat  up 
and  peered  through  the  dim  greyness.  The  sound  came  from 
the  gable  end  of  the  room,  where  presently  something  crimson 
caught  his  eye,  telling  him  the  solution.  The  slice  of  bread, 
left  untouched  on  a  box,  had  attracted  a  daring  robin.  Jerry 


58  When  Pan  Pipes 

held  his  breath  with  delight  as  he  watched.  The  visitor  peeped 
round  at  him  with  bright  eyes,  but  took  no  other  notice,  then 
hopped  to  the  other  side.  Having  sampled  each  crumb,  he  did 
a  little  reconnoitring,  picking  at  the  box  on  the  chance  of  its 
being  something  edible,  then  hopping  to  a  chair  and  inspect- 
ing the  folded  garments,  finally,  with  an  impudent  toss  of  his 
head,  which  made  the  watcher  laugh  outright,  he  spread  his 
wings  and  flew  through  the  open  window.  Jerry  cuddled  down 
again ;  a  new  idea  had  taken  possession.  What  if  he  could  en- 
tice him  back  and  tame  him?  How  delightful  to  have  a  pet. 
Daddy  had  often  said  he  should  have  a  dog,  but  it  had  never 
been  just  the  right  time.  With  his  head  full  of  plans,  he  fell 
asleep,  only  waking  with  the  stir  of  morning. 

The  day  was  long.  It  began  with  a  tussle  with  the  pump, 
which  got  the  better  of  him,  soaking  him  with  a  malicious 
burst  of  water.  Luckily,  the  widow,  through  the  kitchen  win- 
dow, saw  the  catastrophe,  and  sent  him  up  to  change  his 
clothes,  while  she  dried  the  wet  ones.  In  return  for  this, 
Jerry  assisted  during  the  morning;  dried  the  china,  dug  po- 
tatoes, peeled  them  and  shelled  peas,  and  sat  down  to  his 
dinner,  a  hungry,  but  on  the  whole,  not  an  unhappy  little  boy. 

Dinner  was  an  ordeal.  The  peas  were  good,  so  were  the 
potatoes,  so  was  the  slice  of  bacon  which  the  widow  placed 
on  his  plate;  only  Jerry,  used  to  plain  food  but  plenty,  could 
have  eaten  twice  as  much.  The  widow  helped  herself  to 
the  remainder,  which,  although  he  was  a  polite  little  boy,  he 
couldn't  help  noticing  was  three  times  as  much  as  his  own, 
and  put  the  dish  down  for  the  cat.  Jerry  did  his  best  to  eke 
it  out,  but  long  before  the  widow  had  finished  hers,  he  sat 
gazing  with  dismay  at  the  empty  plate. 

"Little  boys  should  eat  their  food  slowly,"  she  said  severely, 
slewing  a  piece  of  bread  round  and  round  in  the  gravy,  "and," 
with  a  glance  at  the  well  scraped  plate,  "leave  a  bit  for  man- 
ners." 

Jerry's  face  grew  scarlet  with  shame  and  a  certain  amount 
of  indignation.  This  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  con- 


Jerry  Gets  a  Charm  59 

versation.  A  small  black  currant  pudding  completed  the  meal, 
unless  you  can  count  as  a  course  the  ten  minutes  spent  by  the 
widow  over  her  glass  of  ale,  while  Jerry's  feet  had  pins  and 
needles,  and  all  his  body  was  tingling  with  a  child's  desire  for 
talk  and  laughter  and  healthy  companionship.  In  the  after- 
noon the  widow  knitted  and  nodded,  and  he  was  free  to  play. 
He  gazed  wistfully  across  the  fields  to  where  the  curling  smoke 
beckoned,  but  he  was  not  sure  if  the  widow  would  be  angry ; 
moreover,  Betty  had  a  task  of  needlework  every  afternoon  and 
must  not  be  disturbed.  After  tea,  when  the  cups  and  saucers 
were  washed  and  put  away,  the  fire  made  up,  and  the  business 
of  the  day  finished,  came  the  fearful  hour  when  the  witch  slept 
and  things  came  to  life. 

Perhaps  the  lonely  daylight  hours  added  their  touch  of  mys- 
tery, or  maybe  the  presence  of  Tibby,  the  cat,  on  the  knitted 
hearthrug,  completed  the  charm.  Anyhow,  more  things  came 
alive,  more  faces  looked  at  him,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with 
magic.  Then  it  was  that  Jerry  knew  he  must  tame  the  robin. 
Of  course,  it  was  a  good  fairy,  and  as  long  as  he  came,  gob- 
lins and  enchanted  creatures  could  do  him  no  harm.  Although 
that  night  he  could  have  eaten  half  a  loaf,  he  refrained,  only 
taking  part  of  the  slice,  putting  the  remainder  in  the  same 
place  as  before. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HOW   JERRY  FOUND  AND  LOST  A  GOOD  FAIRY 

HE  had  his  reward.  The  same  soft  movement  roused  him, 
and  again  he  watched.  This  time,  having  finished  his 
meal,  the  visitor  took  a  survey,  heedless  of  the  entranced  gaze 
fixed  upon  him,  then,  to  Jerry's  unbounded  delight,  hopped 
on  to  the  low  rail  of  his  bed,  and  for  a  moment,  before  flying 
away,  stood  looking  at  him  with  saucy  bright  eyes. 

That  day,  being  Saturday,  was  extra  busy.  Everything 
that  could  be  cleaned,  was  cleaned;  everything  that  could 
be  done,  was  done,  in  preparation  for  what  the  widow  called 
"the  Lord's  day,"  to  Jerry  an  unknown  period.  An  air  of 
bustle  hung  around.  Fruit  had  to  be  picked,  vegetables  to 
be  prepared ;  his  hot  little  fingers  were  purple  with  stains,  and 
exceedingly  dirty,  which  did  not  trouble  him.  Something  else 
did  though. 

When  tea  was  over,  instead  of  subsiding  as  usual,  the  widow 
rose  solemnly,  and  fetched  a  great  iron  kettle  from  the  back'us. 
This  she  filled  and  hung  on  the  crane,  then  with  slow,  labour- 
ing footsteps  left  the  kitchen.  Jerry  could  hear  her  in  one 
of  the  outhouses  moving  heavily.  Something  fell  with  a  dull 
crash ;  there  was  an  ejaculation  from  the  widow,  then  a  strange 
noise  as  of  something  bumping  over  stone  floors.  Jerry's  heart 
stood  still;  there  was  something  fearsome  in  the  preparations. 
Was  he  at  last  to  see  some  of  the  magic  which,  no  doubt,  went 
on  when  he  was  in  bed?  With  wondering  eyes  he  saw  the 
widow  approach,  dragging  and  pushing  a  large  wooden  tub 
used  for  washing.  Jerry  flew  to  assist,  and  silently  they  placed 
it  before  the  kitchen  fire;  then  the  widow  paused  for  breath, 
dropped  heavily  into  the  chair,  and  pointed  to  the  kettle. 

"When  it  boils,"  she.  said,  in  the  tone  of  an  incantation, 

60 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  61 

"you  can  undress;  it's  Saturday  night,  and  children  always 
have  baths  on  Saturday  night.  I  used  to  when  I  was  a  little 
girl." 

Jerry  listened  in  fascinating  amazement.  What  sort  of  a 
little  girl  could  she  have  been  ?  A  little  girl  with  a  fat  face,  no 
doubt.  And  the  wondering  thought  found  words. 

"Who  gave  you  a  bath,  m'am  ?" 

"My  mother,  of  course,  child."  And  in  those  words  was 
hidden  such  a  wealth  of  remembrance  that  silence  followed. 
To  Jerry  they  meant  nothing.  No  mother  had  ever  bathed 
him,  nor  kissed  the  chubby  shoulders  and  arms,  nor  lovingly 
curled  the  dark  clustering  hair.  Margery,  kind  and  dear  as 
she  was,  had  taken  the  bath  as  part  of  a  duty,  and  Jerry 
knew  of  nothing  else.  Only  he  wondered.  But  to  the  widow, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  for  many  years,  came  vague,  far- 
off  memories — of  long  forgotten  things,  of  a  dim  childhood, 
and  youth  buried  many  a  year  ago,  under  the  weight  of  bodily 
necessities  and  comforts.  On  the  whole  it  was  unpleasant. 
The  rusty  memory  of  old  age  is  painful  to  stir,  like  its  bones, 
and  a  sudden  indignant  spluttering  from  the  kettle,  saying 
clearly,  "Take  me  off,  take  me  off,  I'm  boiling,"  made  her 
move  with  unusual  alacrity. 

"Go,  fetch  a  pail  of  cold,  child,"  she  said,  pouring  the 
steaming  water  into  the  tub.  The  mixture  was  stirred  to 
the  right  temperature,  and  the  widow,  from  her  chair,  re- 
garded the  child  with  an  expression  more  human  than  usual. 
She  even  beckoned  him  close,  and  fumbling  with  the  buttons, 
helped  him  to  undress. 

It  was  a  funny  little  fat  figure  in  its  undergarments;  a 
mother  would  have  dropped  a  kiss,  a  laugh,  or  a  cuddle  with 
each  garment;  but  to  the  widow  came  no  such  promptings. 
It  was  a  solemn  ceremony,  worthy  of  a  Saturday  night.  One 
by  one  the  small  articles  were  folded  and  laid  by,  till  Jerry 
stood  in  much  the  same  attire  as  that  in  which  he  had  come 
into  the  world,  save  and  except  the  small  bag  hung  round  his 
neck  by  Margery. 


62  When  Pan  Pipes 

"What's  that,  child  ?"  asked  the  widow  sharply.  Jerry  made 
a  clutch. 

"It's — it's — what  Margie  gave  me."  The  plump  fingers 
snatched,  but  Jerry  hung  on. 

"Well,  you  can't  keep  it  on  in  the  water,"  continued  the 
widow  somewhat  fretfully.  "Give  it  to  me." 

"I'll  put  it  on  the  table,  m'am,"  said  Jerry,  after  a  slight 
hesitation.  The  other  nodded — the  time  for  argument  was 
not  yet.  She  was  busy  putting  on  a  large  apron  and  turning 
up  her  sleeves. 

"Get  in,"  came  the  command,  and  Jerry  stepped  over  the 
edge.  Ah,  it  was  pleasant.  It  roused  feelings  of  comfort  and 
delight  in  cleanliness.  But  the  widow's  methods  were  drastic. 
Plenty  of  soap,  administered  freely,  with  no  regard  for  nose 
or  eyes  or  mouth,  and  much  scouring  of  tender  parts.  But 
when  at  last  it  was  over,  the  final  scrubbing  by  a  coarse  towel 
sent  a  glow  of  delightful  warmth  over  his  small  body,  and  he 
turned  for  the  relic.  Yet  as  he  held  it,  it  was  snatched  from 
him.  Something  surged  in  Jerry's  mind;  with  a  leap,  he 
sprang  to  the  chair  and  clutched  at  the  hanging  ribbon. 

"It's  mine!  it's  mine!    You  mustn't  take  it!    It's  mine!" 

The  widow  looked  up,  mild  as  usual. 

"What's  the  matter,  child?    I'm  only  looking  at  it." 

Jerry,  still  with  fingers  entangled,  only  reiterated — 

"It's  mine,  it's  mine." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  very  passionate  little  boy."  The  tone 
was  severe.  "I'm  not  doing  your  ribbon  any  harm,  only  look- 
ing at  it." 

"But  you  mustn't ;  it's  mine,"  answered  Jerry  wildly. 

"Nonsense,  child;  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king,"  replied  the 
widow  vaguely.  "What's  in  it?"  Slightly  calmed,  but  still 
holding  tight,  Jerry  answered — 

"It's  a  piece  of  the  true  Cross.     Margie  told  me." 

The  widow  sniffed  dubiously,  and  felt  with  finger  and  thumb. 

"That's  not  all— there's  two  things." 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  63 

"It's  what  my  daddy  gave  Margie  for  me.  Oh,  please — 
please,  m'am — let  me  have  it." 

Jerry's  feet  and  fingers  twitched  in  a  frenzy  of  impatience. 

"Wait  a  minute — let  me  see  what  it  is." 

Slowly  she  unloosened  the  mouth  of  the  bag  and,  inserting 
a  large  finger  and  thumb,  would  have  drawn  out  the  contents, 
but  Jerry  was  upon  her. 

"You  shan't!  you  shan't!  Margie  said  it  wasn't  to  be 
opened.  Oh!  you're  naughty — naughty!  It's  mine — mine!" 

And  before  she  realised  it,  the  bag  was  snatched  from  her 
grasp,  and  Jerry  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  scarlet,  pant- 
ing, and  frightened,  but  in  possession.  For  a  moment  the 
widow  stared  helplessly — then  broke  out. 

"Hoighty — toighty — here's  a  pretty  to-do  about  nothing  at 
all.  You're  a  very  rude  little  boy.  Go  to  bed,  and  in  the 
morning  you  can  come  and  beg  my  pardon." 

The  mild  reproof — mild,  because  the  widow  was  too  lazy 
and  passionless  to  administer  a  stronger — had  its  effect.  Was 
he  rude?  And  conscience  said  "Yes."  He  ought  to  have 
waited.  But,  then  he  couldn't  have  had  the  bag  opened.  Per- 
haps if  he  had  asked  nicely  and  not  put  himself  into  a  passion ; 
yes,  he  was  wrong,  and  nothing  remained  but  to  accept  his 
punishment.  He  crept  up  to  bed  supperless,  but  with  a  mind 
fully  intent  on  bearing  it  like  a  man.  He  hunted  round  for  the 
remains  of  last  night's  bread,  and  finding  a  few  crumbs,  crept 
into  bed  with  a  somewhat  heavy  heart,  but  on  the  whole  re- 
lieved that  it  had  ended  as  it  had. 

After  all,  it  seemed  that  he  need  not  have  troubled  him- 
self. The  apology,  hanging  like  a  millstone  round  his  neck, 
had  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  the  sooner  the  better.  Mrs.  Hagges, 
laying  the  cloth  for  breakfast,  was  startled  by  a  small  figure 
at  her  side. 

"If  you  please,  m'am,  I'm  sorry  I  was  rude  last  night;  I 
won't  be  again." 

The  widow  stared.     Truth  to  tell,  she  had  almost  forgotten 


64  When  Pan  Pipes 

the  episode,  although  at  the  time  it  had  disturbed  her  some- 
what. Children  were  an  unknown  species  not  allowed  for 
in  her  calculations.  It  had  not  interfered  with  her  night's 
rest;  it  would  have  taken  more  than  other  people's  troubles 
to  do  that,  and  with  the  business  of  the  morning  the  whole 
affair  moved  into  the  recesses  of  the  past.  But  at  the  time 
it  had  ruffled  her,  and  with  its  re-entry,  came  an  unpleasant 
flavour.  She  answered  somewhat  tartly — 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you're  sorry,  for  you  were 
a  very  rude  little  boy.  Now  you  can  go  and  feed  the  chick- 
ens." 

Perhaps  of  all  the  abasing  rebuffs  on  this  earth,  that  of 
a  snub  on  the  top  of  an  apology  is  the  greatest;  more  espe- 
cially when  the  apologiser  is  also  the  weaker  vessel,  and  more 
or  less  in  the  wrong.  Not  that  the  widow  felt  that.  Some- 
where, buried  almost  as  deep  as  subconsciousness,  was  a  prick- 
ing sensation  which  told  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  pry  into 
Jerry's  belongings. 

Altogether,  to  both  concerned,  the  thing  was  best  forgotten. 
Nevertheless,  as  the  ripples  caused  by  a  small  stone  may  dis- 
turb mighty  waters,  so  this  little  event  left  its  marks — marks 
which,  later  on,  made  themselves  felt. 

But  now  to-day — this  glorious  August  sabbath — was  too 
good  for  aught  but  happiness.  Jerry,  with  only  a  faint  shadow 
left,  made  himself  ready.  He  was  to  go  with  the  Chubbes 
to  the  little  chapel  in  the  park,  where  Mass  was  served  by 
Father  Francis,  Chaplain  to  my  Lord  Cloudesley;  afterwards 
to  dinner  and  tea  at  the  inn.  The  widow,  too,  had  company. 
Mr.  Padden,  minister  of  the  Baptist  Chapel  she  attended,  re- 
turned to  the  cottage  after  service.  But  of  this  Jerry  knew 
nothing.  The  widow,  never  conversational,  kept  her  own 
counsel ;  probably  never  gave  a  thought  to  her  charge  till  the 
back'us  door  let  him  in,  and  closing,  shut  out,  beside  the  deep 
mysterious  lane  and  grey  misty  twilight,  all  kindly  warmth 
and  homely  cheerfulness  for  another  week. 

Mr.  Padden  had  temporarily  departed  when  he  came  back. 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  65 

After  service,  he  would  return  to  enjoy  the  widow's  hospi- 
tality. But  again,  of  that  he  knew  nothing.  Safely  tucked 
away  in  bed,  his  thoughts  were  only  of  the  day ;  Mrs.  Chubbe's 
kiss,  the  farmer's  cheery  welcome,  Betty's  childish  chatter, 
and  all  the  little  Sunday  treats.  Betty,  little  glutton  as  she 
was,  chose  the  Sunday  pudding,  and  part  of  the  afternoon 
had  been  spent  cogitating  upon  that  for  the  following  week. 
For  Jerry  was  to  repeat  the  visit,  and  in  the  long  dreary  wil- 
derness of  days  at  the  cottage,  each  Sunday  stood  out  a  green 
refreshing  oasis. 

There  was  no  break  to  the  monotony.  From  the  time  he 
was  woke  by  the  friendly  movement  at  the  window,  till  he 
lifted  the  cover  of  the  bread  pan  at  night,  ages  flowed  by. 
Yet  he  was  not  unhappy;  only  in  a  state  of  stagnation — 
a  small  machine,  knowing  no  emotion  after  that  one  out- 
break. But  though  Jerry  stood  still  seemingly,  the  tide  of 
Time  swept  on,  bringing  events  nearer  every  hour.  The 
hands  of  Church  Clock  circled  and  circled  and  circled.  The 
Moon's  round  face  dwindled  to  a  profile,  grew  pale  and  thin, 
then  broadened  out  to  a  cheery  grin.  And  always  the  two 
friendly  countenances  peeped  into  the  little  rooms. 

"Still  watching,  Church  Clock?"  the  Moon  said  each  time 
he  rose  full  and  strong. 

"Still  watching,  friend,"  Church  Clock  would  answer. 

"No  news  of  Margery?" 

"Not  yet— not  yet—"  ticked  the  Clock,  "but  it'll  come— it'll 
come." 

"Aye — it'll  come,"  said  the  Moon,  "but  he  mustn't  forget 
Margery." 

"No,  friend,"  answered  Church  Clock.  "When  the  hush  of 
afternoon  falls,  when  tired  little  people  are  falling  asleep,  I 
say,  'Jerry — Margery,'  and  he  remembers." 

"And  his  daddy?"  queried  the  Moon  anxiously.  Church 
Clock  ticked  for  a  few  minutes,  then  answered  quietly — 

"His  daddy  is  always  with  him.  In  his  work  he  remem- 
bers— and  I  do  not  tell  him — that  work  is  noble.  In  his  play, 


66  When  Pan  Pipes 

he  thinks  of  past  hours  when  he  had  a  loving  playmate.  The 
only  time  when  he  seems  furthest  off  is  after  tea,  for  then  the 
magic  of  evening  falls;  he  cannot  hear  my  voice,  he  cannot 
see  your  face,  friend.  In  the  stillness,  the  souls  of  things 
inanimate  wake,  and  he  sees  them,  though  to  few  is  given  that 
power.  But  when  he  goes  to  bed,  he  remembers.  Then  he 
remembers  most,  for  in  sleep  a  corner  is  lifted  of  the  curtain 
which  hangs  between  this  world  and  fairyland — so  he  sees  the 
other  side." 

Summer  passed.  The  nip  of  autumn  was  felt  in  the  air,  in 
the  water  at  the  pump.  Jerry  spent  long  mornings  gathering 
sticks  for  the  wood  pile  in  the  yard,  for  fuel  was  scarce  and 
dear,  and  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  burnt  many,  many  sticks. 
Out  in  the  woods  everything  was  very  still ;  only  the  sound 
of  a  woodcutter's  axe  occasionally.  Not  with  the  deep  brood- 
ing silence  of  summer,  but  with  an  expectant  stillness  as 
though  the  trees  listened  for  a  footfall.  Even  Jerry  paused 
sometimes  in  his  wood  gathering,  wondering,  and  with  a 
strange  yearning  to  catch  the  beauty  around  him — to  keep, 
condense,  crystallise  it — somehow  to  make  it  part  of  him- 
self. 

Thick  and  high  and  brown  grew  the  bracken,  while  above, 
hung  a  canopy  of  crimson  and  russet,  gold  and  tawny  brown. 
Paths,  under  the  lacy  network  of  black  branches  against  a 
pale  blue  sky,  were  deep  with  rustling  leaves.  A  child's  para- 
dise. Nature  folded  little  Jerry  in  her  cloak,  and  its  loneli- 
ness was  like  a  great  loneliness  surrounding  a  smaller  one. 
Yet  Nature  gives  while  taking  away.  Out  in  the  woods, 
remembered  things  grew  more  vivid,  and  things  forgotten  came 
back  with  new  perceptions. .  Old  fairy  tales,  legends,  and 
childish  lore,  retold  themselves  in  the  quiet  solitude,  never 
again  to  be  banished,  and  those  autumn  days  added  another 
stratum  to  the  child's  already  half  formed  mind. 

Inside  the  cottage  was  another  atmosphere.  The  great  mys- 
tery of  the  woods  became  the  smaller  mystery  created  by  man. 
That  the  Widow  Hagges  was  a  witch  became  every  day  more 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  67 

certain  to  Jerry.  A  thousand  things  seemed  to  confirm  the 
idea,  and  there  was  a  certain  fearful  fascination  in  being  a 
member  of  such  a  household.  The  Sundays  spent  at  the  inn 
and  the  daily  visits  of  the  robin  were  Jerry's  bit  of  human  life. 
With  them  he  was  again  a  child,  though  always  a  solemn  one. 
The  robin  grew  tamer  and  tamer ;  he  would  hop  on  to  Jerry's 
bed,  perch  on  his  hand,  even  take  crumbs  from  his  mouth. 
The  bread  was  saved  at  night,  though  each  day  it  seemed 
harder,  for  there  were  times  when  the  hunger  of  a  growing 
boy  made  itself  felt,  and  the  widow's  housekeeping  was,  to  say 
the  least,  not  lavish.  Yet  Jerry  knew  that  meals  were  cooked 
of  which  he  had  no  share.  Sometimes,  on  a  cold  night,  after 
he  had  been  in  bed  an  hour  or  so,  there  would  creep  up  into 
his  room  a  warm,  savoury  odour,  suggesting  roast  meat,  po- 
tatoes, gravy — all  the  delicious  things  a  hungry  little  stomach 
craves  for.  Betty's  only  knowledge  of  hunger  was  a  longing 
for  almond  rock,  toffee,  and  sugary  dainties. 

It  was  tantalising,  irritating,  and  most  puzzling.  The  con- 
tents of  the  larder  were  well  known  to  Jerry— only  by  magic 
could  the  smell  be  accounted  for.  Perhaps  it  was  served  by 
black  imps,  or  perhaps  it  was  that  the  goat  who  lived  in  the 
next  field  was  a  fairy  goat,  and  only  had  to  be  invoked  as 
"Little  goat,  my  table  spread,"  and  lo !  a  wondrous  feast  would 
spring  up.  True,  in  the  quiet  of  the  afternoon,  he  had  tried 
it  himself,  but  with  no  result,  for  nothing  happened,  only 
Nanny  turned  and  looked  at  him  as  though  she  knew  all  about 
it.  Strange,  mysterious,  unaccountable — yet  only  another  of 
the  mysteries  of  the  cottage. 

As  winter  drew  nearer,  life  became  harder.  Pump  water 
is  very  cold  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  a  flock  mattress  has 
few  warmth-giving  properties,  and  a  garret  catches  most 
winds  that  blow.  On  no  account  would  Jerry  close  his  win- 
dow ;  Robin  entered  by  it ;  but  one  night,  to  his  huge  delight, 
the  visitor  flew  in  as  he  was  dropping  off  to  sleep  and  perched 
on  the  bed  rail.  From  that  time  it  became  a  regular  thing, 
and  the  friendly  faces  peeping  in,  smiled  at  each  other — the 


68  When  Pan  Pipes 

smile  of  the  wise  for  those  little  lives  which  ought  to  know 
only  Pan's  fairy  music. 

"Such  a  lonely  little  boy,  Church  Clock,"  said  the  Moon. 

"It  will  pass,  friend,"  ticked  the  Clock,  "it  will  pass ;  but  not 
yet.  There  are  many  weary  hours — sadness,  passion — to  be 
overcome.  For  a  child's  life  is  made  in  its  morning,  and,  to 
those  who  win  through  trouble  and  grief,  life  gives  its  reward, 
sooner  or  later,  here,  perchance,  yet  sometimes  not  until  the 
curtain  which  hangs  between  each  one  and  fairyland  is  lifted." 

Day  by  day  Robin  grew  tamer,  disappearing  during  the  day, 
but  coming  regularly  every  night.  Jerry  wondered  where  he 
lived,  but  it  was  not  until  nearly  Christmas  that  he  found  out, 
and  then  only  by  Robin's  own  consent. 

There  were  still  sticks  to  be  gathered.  It  seemed  that  the 
kitchen  fire  burned  more  and  more  each  day.  Every  after- 
noon, when  the  dinner  things  were  washed  and  put  away,  the 
hearth  white-stoned  and  the  kettle  filled,  he  would  slip  off 
to  the  woods  into  the  greater  mystery  and  bigger  loneliness, 
which  yet,  somehow,  held  no  fear. 

Beautiful  were  they  in  their  winter  dress  of  soft  snow  and 
sparkling  frost.  Quiet  now — not  still,  nor  expectant,  only 
peaceful,  for  everything  slept.  Jerry's  little  feet  made  a  gen- 
tle padding  sound;  sometimes  a  stick  snapped  or  a  mass  of 
snow  fell  with  a  dull  thud,  but  nothing  else  stirred.  Sticks 
were  hard  to  find,  and  sometimes  the  sun-setting  would  find 
him  with  only  a  small  handful.  When  the  crimson  glow  fell 
through  the  white  trees,  turning  them  rosily  pink,  beautiful 
though  it  was,  Jerry  never  lingered.  The  lane  had  to  be 
passed,  and  when  the  sun  dropped  below  the  horizon  it  be- 
came a  place  of  terror,  haunted  by  hobgoblins,  witches,  and 
Heaven  knew  what. 

A  small  incident  altered  it  all,  taking  the  fear  completely 
away. 

One  afternoon  he  came  to  that  part  of  the  lane  which  was 
dark  even  in  broad  daylight.  There  was  a  stir  in  the  branches 
above,  and  something  touched  his  shoulder.  His  heart  leaped 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  69 

up,  then  dropped,  for  a  soft  warm  thing  cuddled  close  to  his 
face,  as  though  in  greeting,  then  fluttered  its  wings  and  flew 
upwards  into  the  heart  of  a  great  oak,  leaving  Jerry  entranced. 

So  that  was  Robin's  home !  That  he  was  a  good  fairy  was 
a  double  certainty,  and  from  that  moment  all  fear  vanished. 
Very  soon  he  would  stay  longer,  even  accompanying  him  to 
the  woods,  leaving  him  as  they  neared  the  cottage. 

All  the  love  in  Jerry's  heart  flowed  out  to  the  little  crea- 
ture who  trusted  him  so  completely.  Never  for  one  moment 
did  the  thought  of  Robin  leave  him,  and  when  other  birds 
looked  thin  and  poor,  Jerry  rejoiced  in  the  fact  that  his  pet 
was  fat — perhaps  almost  too  fat — sleek,  and  extremely  pert. 
Bits  of  piecrust  found  their  way  to  his  pocket,  cake  crumbs 
begged  from  Mrs.  Chubbe  on  Sunday;  all  saved  for  Master 
Robin's  regalement.  Betty  had  been  told  and  was  keenly  in- 
terested. 

"One  day  I'll  bring  him,  Betty,"  promised  Jerry,  "when 
he  gets  a  little  tamer.  But  he  mightn't  like  other  people 
yet,"  and  though  Betty  teased  and  scolded,  he  stood  firm. 

But  a  dark  cloud  was  lowering;  so  black,  so  threatening, 
that  when  it  fell,  even  goblins  and  imps  lost  their  terrors; 
the  cloud  of  evil  through  which,  sooner  or  later,  everyone 
must  pass,  either  to  be  swallowed  up  in  its  blackness,  or  to 
emerge  stronger,  purer,  nobler,  by  resistance. 

It  was  three  days  before  Christmas;  snow  had  fallen  for 
many  hours,  followed  by  sharp,  windless  frosts.  A  pale  sun 
gleamed  in  a  pastel  blue  sky,  the  distance  was  no  longer  pur- 
ple, only  a  cold  faint  mauve.  Save  for  the  black  tree  trunks 
Nature  wore  her  clear,  low  tints,  and  the  world  of  green  and 
gold  was  arrayed  accordingly. 

But  the  children's  world  was  gay  with  glorious  expecta- 
tion. Betty's  tongue  flowed  like  a  mill-stream — fast  and  un- 
ceasingly. For  Jerry,  it  was  to  be  like  Sunday,  only  glorified 
by  Christmas  fare  and  Christmas  jollities.  Yet,  though  it 
takes  the  better  part  of  a  lifetime  to  realise  it,  it  is  a  fact 
that,  when  the  tide  of  life  flows  broad  and  full  and  merrily, 


70  When  Pan  Pipes 

then  is  the  time  to  beware  of  rocks  beneath  and  sudden 
squalls. 

On  that  particular  morning  Jerry  rose  with  joyous  antici- 
pations. Only  a  few  more  days,  and  then  Christmas.  Grad- 
ually more  and  more  had  been  put  on  his  small  shoulders. 
The  widow,  without  perhaps  meaning  it,  had  found  out  the 
delight  of  having  young  feet  and  hands  about  her,  and  little 
by  little,  much  of  the  odd  household  work  had  fallen  to  the 
child,  who  accepted  it  unquestioningly.  Betty  helped  her 
aunt,  he  knew,  so  of  course  he  must  help.  There  was  plenty 
to  do,  but  work  never  frightened  him,  and  to-day  all  things 
were  easy.  He  kissed  Robin,  watched  him  fly  through  the 
window,  and  went  downstairs. 

"You  can  go  into  the  woodyard  and  chop  those  bits  that 
Peter  brought  yesterday." 

Peter  was  one  of  my  lord's  rangers,  and  report  said  that 
long  ago  he  had  been  an  admirer  of  the  widow,  which  might 
or  might  not  be;  anyhow,  many  a  bundle  of  chips  came  from 
him,  and  Jerry  occasionally  accompanied  him  in  his  walks 
through  the  estate. 

"Mind  and  cut  it  small,"  called  the  widow,  as  he  passed 
the  back'us  window;  "an'  don't  chop  your  fingers,  an'  keep 
your  feet  well  back." 

For  some  time  Jerry  chopped,  till  back  and  arms  ached 
healthily — then  stood  up  to  view  his  work.  Yes,  there  was 
quite  a  good  pile — the  woodstack  was  the  highest  he  had  seen 
in  the  village.  Altogether  Jerry  was  proud  of  his  perform- 
ance. Suddenly,  there  was  a  flutter  of  wings,  a  little  sound, 
and  the  soft  warm  thing  was  on  his  shoulder,  nestling  close, 
and  searching  his  mouth  for  crumbs. 

"You  dear — "  whispered  Jerry,  putting  a  hand  against  it. 
"But  I  haven't  got  anything  for  you  now." 

Robin  snuggled  closer,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  rest,  Jerry 
lifted  him  tenderly,  kissed  him,  and  placed  him  on  a  pile  of 
wood  well  out  of  reach  of  the  axe.  For  a  time  he  sat  there, 
watching  with  bright  eyes,  then  began  to  hop  merrily  about. 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  71 

Jerry  could  hear  the  widow's  slow  footsteps  passing  from 
back'us  to  kitchen,  then  back  again,  making  an  occasional 
detour  to  the  room  above.  Presently  the  back'us  door  opened 
and  shut,  the  footsteps  came  nearer. 

Jerry  paused,  glancing  at  Robin,  wondering  if  his  secret 
would  be  discovered.  There  was  nowhere  to  put  him  out  of 
sight,  besides,  perhaps  he  wouldn't  go.  While  he  hesitated, 
the  footsteps  were  upon  him,  and  the  widow  stood  by  his  side. 
She  nodded  approvingly,  then  turned  and  took  a  leisurely  sur- 
vey of  the  woodstack. 

From  his  perch  Master  Robin  cocked  his  head  saucily,  then 
spread  his  wings,  and  settled  on  Jerry's  shoulder.  The  widow 
gazed  with  greedy  eyes. 

"That's  a  fine  fat  bird,"  she  said.  "Stand  still,  little  boy— 
quite  still." 

Wondering,  but  pleased  that  she  should  be  interested  in 
his  pet,  Jerry  obeyed,  and  the  widow  stepped  cautiously  nearer, 
put  out  her  hand  as  though  to  stroke  the  soft  feathers,  and, 
in  a  second,  while  the  smile  was  still  left  on  the  child's  face, 
Robin — merry,  saucy,  loving  Robin — lay  in  the  widow's  big 
hand,  a  quivering  mass  of  feathers. 

"A  fat  bird,  and  no  mistake,"  said  the  widow  triumphantly. 
"A  fine  tit-bit  he'll  make — and  as  you're  a  good  little  boy, 
you  shall  sit  up  and  have  some  of  the  gravy." 

Jerry  stood  still — every  nerve,  every  muscle  paralysed. 
Something  horrible  had  been  near  him,  something  worse  than 
witchcraft.  Then,  with  a  loud  thump,  his  heart  started  throb- 
bing. The  air  was  dark  with  vague  terrors,  with  darkness; 
then,  as  it  cleared,  he  caught  sight  of  the  scarlet  breast  in  a 
cruel  hand,  and  everything  turned  blood  red.  Wildly  he  beat 
the  air,  and  with  a  loud  cry,  flew  at  the  widow.  With  a  great 
jump  he  was  on  her  shoulders,  hitting,  scratching,  biting. 

"My  bird — my  bird — give  me  my  bird.  You've  killed  him 
— you've  killed  him.  You're  wicked — you're  wicked.  Now  I 
know  you  are  a  witch." 

Too  astonished  for  words,  for  a  moment  she  stood  still. 


72  When  Pan  Pipes 

But  as  the  blows  fell,  and  she  felt  the  keen  stab  of  Jerry's 
sharp  teeth,  she,  too,  raised  her  voice. 

"Help,  help,  murder!"  The  loud  cry,  mingling  with  the 
child's  passionate  sobs,  carried  far  in  the  keen  frosty  air  to 
the  top  of  the  lane  which  Peter  the  Ranger  happened  to  be 
crossing.  The  unusual  sound  startled  him;  the  spaniel  at  his 
heels  added  his  bark. 

"Whativer  can  it  be  ?"  said  Peter,  slowly  ruminating.  "  'Tis 
widow's  voice,  for  sure.  Best  go  an'  see."  Down  the  lane 
went  man  and  dog,  into  the  cottage. 

"Help,  help,  murder!"  The  tone  was  getting  hoarse,  and 
even  Peter  hurried  his  steps.  Out  in  the  yard  he  found  them 
— the  widow  gasping  for  breath,  Jerry  on  her  back,  still  rais- 
ing the  pitiful  passionate  cry,  "My  bird — my  bird — give  me 
my  bird,"  and  on  the  ground  a  dead  robin,  with  closed  eyes 
and  limp  wings. 

"Take  him  off,  Peter,"  shrieked  the  widow.  "He's  mad — 
mad." 

Peter,  after  gasping  and  staring,  rose  to  the  occasion,  and 
marching  into  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  grasped  one  of  the  kick- 
ing legs.  "Now  then,  young  master,  you  come  along  o' 
me." 

The  only  answer  was  a  violent  blow  from  the  free  leg, 
causing  him  to  back  away  and  hold  his  face. 

"There's  a  young  devil  for  ye,  an'  no  mistake,"  said  he, 
when  the  sudden  pain  had  abated.  "But  I'll  have  him,  missis 
— never  fear.  Ketch  his  legs,  while  I  lift  him  down." 

The  large  plump  hands  were  unaccustomed  to  quick  move- 
ment, and  after  a  few  efforts,  she  gave  it  up.  Jerry's  violent 
passion  was  lessening — his  blows  grew  weaker,  the  loud  angry 
cry  was  subsiding.  Peter  slipped  warily  behind,  and  with  a 
sudden  snatch,  lifted  the  small  form  to  the  ground,  where  it 
dropped  heavily  from  him.  The  widow  straightened  herself, 
gazed  in  a  bewildered  manner  at  the  sobbing  child  stretched 
full  length  before  her,  at  the  tiny  dead  thing,  the  innocent 
cause  of  the  trouble,  and  in  a  vacant  way  at  her  rescuer. 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fcdry  73 

"What's  it  all  about,  missis?" 

She  shook  her  head  helplessly,  then  turned  and  went  into 
the  cottage,  where  she  subsided  heavily  into  the  easy  chair. 
Never  before  to  her  knowledge  had  she  done  such  a  thing 
in  the  morning,  but,  then,  unusual  events  justified  unusual 
doings.  She  was  hopelessly  bewildered,  sorry  for  herself, 
and  wholly  unable  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  it  all.  What  was 
a  bird  more  or  less  ?  Had  she  known  it  was  Jerry's  pet,  why, 
of  course,  she  would  not  have  hurt  it.  But  he  could  get  an- 
other; robins  were  plentiful  enough.  Where  was  the  harm? 
The  deeper  injury  was  beyond  her  understanding.  The  veil 
which  shuts  out  evil  from  childhood  had  been  rudely  torn 
aside,  and  Jerry  knew  vaguely  that  beauty,  innocence,  and 
weakness  must  succumb  to  brute  strength  and  gross  passions 
— that  love  itself  is  sometimes  love's  undoing,  that  death,  not 
death  in  its  kind  and  gentle  aspect  as  he  had  known  it,  but 
carrying  with  it  a  fearful  horror — a  suggestion  of  things  un- 
known— lurks  near,  ever  ready  to  show  its  hideous  side. 

Peter,  after  a  short  consideration  of  the  little  figure  shaking 
with  sobs,  followed  the  widow  indoors. 

"An'  now,  missis,  let's  hear  the  rights  on  it."  She  shook 
her  head  and  gazed  into  the  fire.  Peter  waited.  Presently  she 
spoke,  sullenly  warming  her  hands  at  the  blaze. 

"How  should  a  body  know  'twas  the  child's  pet.  A  robin's 
a  robin — they're  all  alike.  An'  this  one — "  she  sat  back,  rest- 
ing her  arms  on  the  chintz  covered  chair.  "I  tell  you,  Peter, 
'twas  the  plumpest  bird  I  ever  did  see — and  he  should  have 
had  some  o'  the  gravy  for  his  supper." 

Thoroughly  exhausted  the  widow  sunk  into  a  kind  of  doze ; 
Peter  tried  again,  but  got  no  answer,  and  shaking  his  head, 
stole  out.  On  the  hard  cobble  stones,  Jerry  still  lay;  the  vio- 
lent cry  had  dropped,  only  long  sobs  came  now  and  then, 
shaking  the  small  figure  from  head  to  foot.  They,  too,  stopped, 
and  presently  Jerry  rose,  stiff,  cramped,  heart  and  head  alike 
aching.  The  dead  bird  caught  him  at  once;  but  his  tears 
were  used  up.  Lifting  the  poor  little  body,  he  stole  cautiously 


74  When  Pan  Pipes 

in,  and,  without  waking  the  widow,  crept  up  to  his  room. 
Sitting  by  the  window,  he  held  the  dead  bird  till  the  winter 
dusk  fell,  and  the  cold  grew  so  intense  that  even  sorrow  had 
to  give  way  to  bodily  necessities.  He  couldn't  go  down;  to 
face  the  widow  might  rouse  all  the  bitter  anger  again.  So, 
quietly  undressing,  he  slipped  into  bed,  and,  thoroughly  ex- 
hausted, fell  asleep. 

The  widow  woke  with  a  start  and  a  remembrance  of  un- 
pleasant things,  to  say  nothing  of  stiffness  and  pain.  All 
sorts  of  things  were  happening  in  the  strange  jumble  called 
her  mind.  Among  others,  the  fact  that  she  had  someone  to 
look  after.  With  a  great  effort  and  many  groans  she  lifted 
herself  from  the  chair  and  slowly  made  her  way  to  the  yard. 
Jerry  was  gone,  and  for  a  moment  a  fear  possessed  her  that 
he  had  run  away.  Then  commonsense  told  her  to  look  in- 
doors. She  dragged  herself  up  the  narrow  stair,  very  softly 
opened  the  door  of  the  gable  room,  and  looked  in.  The  child 
was  sitting  quietly  by  the  window,  one  little  hand  holding  the 
dead  bird,  the  other  softly  stroking  its  feathers. 

Something  strange  and  unknown  seized  the  watcher's  heart. 
She  closed  the  door  noiselessly,  and  for  a  moment  stood  wait- 
ing till  the  queer  sensation  had  passed  away,  and  the  mistiness 
cleared  from  her  vision.  Then  she  made  her  way  downstairs. 
She  could  settle  to  nothing  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Tea  time 
came,  but  no  Jerry,  and  again  she  toiled  up  the  stairs,  this 
time  going  right  in.  Jerry  lay  on  the  bed,  breathing  softly — 
yet,  even  as  she  waited,  came  a  long  quivering  sob,  and  the 
widow,  unconscious  of  its  being  a  strange  thing,  bent  and 
drew  the  bedclothes  closer,  even  making  a  clumsy  attempt  at 
tucking  up. 

Ah,  but  Pan  piped  wildly  that  night;  and  fauns  and  satyrs 
danced,  while  fairies  drew  into  the  shadow  and  wept  for  the 
sorrow  of  things.  Only  the  Moon  and  Church  Clock  remained 
the  same. 

"Such  a  lonely  little  boy,  Church  Clock,"  said  the  Moon. 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fairy  75 

"Yes — but  it'll  pass — it'll  pass,"  answered  Church  Clock; 
"and  there's  a  meaning  in  it  all.  Every  sorrow,  every  sin, 
teaches  its  own  lesson.  If  there  were  no  shadow  there  would 
be  no  sun.  Sorrow  and  happiness,  good  and  evil,  suffering 
and  health,  come  and  go,  following  each  other,  holding  each 
other's  hands,  close  companions,  knowing  that  one  cannot  exist 
without  the  other." 

Jerry  woke  next  morning,  missing  the  cheery  sound;  then, 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  dead  bird  laid  on  his  box,  the  tears 
broke  out  afresh,  yet  not  wild  and  passionate  as  before.  The 
pump  invigorated  him,  and  he  plucked  up  heart  to  face  the 
widow  and  eat  his  breakfast,  which,  truth  to  tell,  was  very 
welcome.  After  all,  in  this  strange  world  in  which  we  live, 
bodily  necessities  strike  a  very  loud  note.  It  is  seldom  that 
emotion  can  kill  them. 

There  was  never  any  conversation;  that  day  even  words 
were  missing.  Jerry  went  on  with  his  work,  the  widow  with 
hers,  and  evening  came.  But,  strange  to  say,  things  had 
changed.  No  longer  did  the  witch  sleep,  but  sat  bolt  upright 
in  her  chair,  regarding  Jerry  with  a  curious  air,  as  though  he 
were  some  unknown  Lilliputian  thing  strayed  into  her  do- 
mains. It  was  trying,  more  especially  as  it  lasted.  What 
passed  in  the  widow's  confused  jumble  of  a  mind — she  alone 
knew.  Dim  remembrances  of  childhood,  perhaps,  strange 
thoughts  of  a  time  when  youth  and  its  emotions  were  all  in 
all  and  food  and  money  counted  as  naught.  This  hotch-potch 
crystallised  on  the  second  night.  After  regarding  him  intently 
for  half  an  hour,  she  leaned  forward  and  moved  a  plump  fore- 
finger. Jerry  obeyed  the  call  and  stood  by  her  chair. 

"Little  boy,"  she  said  solemnly,  "did  you  love  your  bird 
very  much  ?" 

A  rush  of  memory  brought  back  all  the  heart  burning  and 
hatred ;  he  moved  a  little  further  away  and  nodded,  not  trust- 
ing himself  to  speak. 

"Well,  then,"  she  spoke  slowly — conversation  between  her- 


76  When  Pan  Pipes 

self  and  Jerry  was  always  difficult,  and  this  was  not  an  easy 
matter — "I'm  sorry  I  killed  your  bird.  You  see,  I  didn't 
know." 

Jerry  said  nothing — what  was  there  to  say  ? — and  would  have 
gone  back  to  his  seat,  but  the  widow  held  him. 

"Come  here,"  she  whispered,  "and  see  what  I've  got  for  a 
good  little  boy." 

She  pushed  a  hand  down  among  the  cushions,  presently 
bringing  up  from  their  depths  a  small  paper  parcel,  which, 
with  many  nods  and  creasings,  she  presented  to  Jerry.  It 
was  a  trifling  act,  a  poor  gift — only  two  gaudily  painted  sugar 
sticks — but  even  to  the  child  was  apparent  the  deeper  mean- 
ing behind.  The  intense  hatred,  the  bitter  loathing  subsided; 
it  might  come  again,  but  never  to  the  same  extent.  The  first 
knowledge  that  evil  is  part  of  all  had  come  to  Jerry,  and  he 
accepted  the  gift  in  the  way  it  was  given,  as  a  peace  offering, 
an  outward  and  visible  sign  of  something  vague  and  elusive, 
yet  somehow  understandable.  The  widow's  face  creased  and 
uncreased.  With  a  wave  of  her  hand  she  dismissed  him,  sank 
back  on  the  cushions  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  and  in  five 
minutes  was  snoring. 

Once  more,  when  all  was  silent,  came  the  awaking  of  things 
inanimate,  this  time  like  school  children  let  loose  after  long 
imprisonment.  The  malicious  spite  was  gone,  giving  place 
to  cheerful  winks  and  nods  and  grins,  and  even  sometimes 
Jerry  fancied  he  heard  a  chuckle.  The  fear  had  vanished, 
he  was  even  amused,  and  when  bedtime  came  he  went  with 
almost  a  light  heart,  even  arranging  in  his  own  mind  details 
of  a  magnificent  burial,  with  Betty  and  himself  as  chief  mourn- 
ers. Such  close  bedfellows  are  tragedy  and  comedy. 

The  story  spread  through  the  village.  Jerry,  on  Christmas 
day  and  with  many  tears,  told  Betty,  and  together  they  dug 
a  hole,  and,  with  much  ceremonial,  laid  the  little  victim  in  it. 
Much  of  the  joy  of  the  day  was  buried  too,  for  Jerry's  lov- 
ing heart  was  still  sore  for  the  loss  of  his  pet,  and  though 


Jerry  Found  a  Good  Fcdry  77 

the  first  bitterness  was  gone,  time  alone  could  place  things  on 
an  easy  footing  again  in  the  cottage. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  watched  him,  asking  no  questions.  She  had 
heard  the  story  only  that  morning,  for  strangely  enough,  or 
possibly  because  those  nearest  are  the  last  to  be  told,  it  had 
not  been  related  in  the  inn  parlour,  and  not  until  the  next 
day  did  the  farmer  hear  it.  Betty's  restless  tongue  could  no 
more  keep  a  secret  than  resist  a  lollipop;  besides,  it  was  no 
secret.  Boxing  Day  being  slack,  the  farmer  was  somewhat 
at  a  loss  for  occupation,  coming  in  and  out  continually. 

As  he  sat  drinking  his  glass  of  morning  ale,  his  niece  prat- 
tled gaily  of  all  things  in  the  village  and  out  of  it.  He 
listened  amused,  sometimes  bursting  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
Presently  Jerry's  name  was  brought  up,  and  with  it  the  events 
of  the  previous  day  asserted  themselves.  The  funeral,  and 
from  that  to  the  cause  of  it,  was  a  natural  sequence. 

"Uncle  Matt,  the  Widow  Hagges  killed  Jerry's  bird. 
Wasn't  she  a  wicked,  wicked  woman?"  Mrs.  Chubbe  looked 
up  sharply. 

"Now,  then,  Betty,  stop  talking  about  it." 

"But  she  did,  Aunt  Martha,"  persisted  the  piping  voice. 
"You  know  she  did.  The  dear  little  bird  that  Jerry  fed  every 
night  and  morning.  Uncle  Matt,  do  you  know,  he  knew  Jerry 
quite  well,  and  flew  straight  on  to  his  shoulder  because  he 
thought  he'd  find  crumbs  in  his  mouth — because  that's  how 
Jerry  fed  him  sometimes ;  and  he  promised  he'd  show  me,  but 
now  he  can't,  because  the  little  bird's  dead.  I  do  think  she's 
a  horrid,  wicked  woman." 

The  farmer  listened  gravely,  finished  his  bread  and  cheese 
and  ale,  and  set  Betty  down,  telling  her  to  go  and  play.  When 
she  had  gone,  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"Missis,  is  it  true,  what  the  wench  says?  Did  she  kill 
the  little  lad's  bird?"  Mrs.  Chubbe  for  once  looked  sheep- 
ish. 

"Well,  yes,  master,  I  suppose  she  did.    But  what's  a  bird 


78  When  Pan  Pipes 

more  or  less.  I'm  sure  there's  a  many  of  them  come  seed 
time  and  the  fruit."  The  farmer  answered  gravely: 

"Wife,  there's  not  a  sparrow  that  falls  to  the  ground  but 
He  knows  it.  Doubtless  she  meant  no  harm,  but  'twas  the 
child's  bird,  and  'tis  a  pity,  aye,  a  pity." 

Mrs.  Chubbe  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 
There  were  times  when  the  farmer  put  down  his  foot,  quietly 
but  firmly,  and  though  she  would  have  scorned  to  acknowledge 
it,  at  such  times  his  wife's  respect  and  pride  in  him  swelled 
to  bursting  point — almost — never  quite. 

"For,  once  tell  'em  they're  right,"  said  she,  "and  you  may 
give  in  for  ever.  They'd  never  f orgit  it — not  the  best  man  i' 
the  world." 


CHAPTER  V 

WHICH    INTRODUCES    A   LORD,    A    LADY,    A   FAIRY   GODMOTHER,    A 
PRIEST,    AND  A    MINISTER,   AND  ALSO   TELLS   OF   A    LETTER 

PETER  the  Ranger  stood  at  the  back'us  door  one  morning, 
a  fine  hare  dangling  from  his  hand,  and  called  loudly. 
The  widow,  washing  cups  in  the  kitchen,  Jerry  wiping,  an- 
swered : 

"Come  in,  Peter,"  adding  as  he  entered,  "Sit  ye  down  by 
the  fire,  an'  warm  yourself ;  it's  cruel  cold." 

The  tall  figure,  blocking  up  the  doorway  almost  completely, 
took  no  notice  of  the  invitation. 

"Ay,  'tis  that,"  he  replied.  "But  it's  breakin'  up;  there'll 
be  little  more  cold  weather.  I've  brought  you  a  hare,  missis. 
'Tis  almost  the  last  we'll  be  shootin'.  Wants  keepin'  a  bit. 
I'll  put  it  in  the  larder  afore  I  come  in." 

The  widow  nodded  and  went  on  with  her  work.  In  a  few 
moments  he  returned,  drew  the  easy  chair  close  to  the  fire 
and  sat  down,  warming  his  hands  in  silence.  The  widow 
finished  her  job,  emptied  the  water,  and  wiped  her  fingers  on 
the  towel ;  leisurely  she  drew  a  glass  of  ale,  brought  out  bread 
and  cheese  and  put  them  before  the  visitor.  Peter  nodded 
and  helped  himself ;  then  took  a  long  draught,  and  sitting  back 
in  his  chair,  untied  his  tongue. 

"The  ladies  is  comin'  back  this  week."  Mrs.  Hagges,  slowly 
dusting,  ejaculated:  "Oh!"  and  dusted  on.  "Who  told  ye?" 
she  asked  presently.  Peter  cut  another  slice  of  bread,  took 
a  deep  pull,  and  answered  curtly,  "Mrs.  Lovegrove."  Again 
silence.  Jerry  fetched  potatoes  and  began  peeling  them  for 
dinner.  Peter  halted,  a  piece  of  cheese  on  his  knife  half 
way  to  his  mouth,  and  glanced  comically  at  him. 

79 


80  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Ha'  ye  got  anither  bird  yet,  boy?"  he  asked  teasingly. 
Jerry  coloured  and  the  widow  turned,  quickly  for  her. 

"Let  the  child  alone,  Peter,"  she  said  almost  sharply.  Peter 
grinned  and  winked  to  himself,  shook  his  head  knowingly, 
and  finished  the  bread  and  cheese,  then  pushed  his  chair  back, 
and  stood  up,  hands  behind  him,  warming  his  back  at  the 
fire. 

"They  say  my  lord's  comin'  too."  Mrs.  Hagges  turned  from 
her  dusting. 

"An' my  Lady  Mary  ?"  Peter  shook  his  head.  "Nay,  she's 
with  her  governess,  in  London." 

"Oh !"  the  widow  dusted  again.  Peter  turned  to  Jerry,  un- 
able to  resist  teasing  the  solemn-faced  child. 

"Ye'll  ha'  to  mend  your  manners,  my  lad,  now  Father  Fran- 
cis is  comin'.  No  more  fightin'  an'  screamin',  an'  such  like." 

Again  the  widow  raised  her  voice,  almost  to  vehemence. 

"I  tell  you,  Peter,  let  the  child  be." 

"All  right,  missis,  all  right."  He  moved  from  the  fire, 
picked  up  his  heavy  stick,  and  made  a  movement  to  the 
door. 

"I'll  be  going  now ;  there's  a  sight  o'  work  to  be  done  afore 
my  lord  comes.  'Tant  much  that  he  misses,  an'  Mrs.  Love- 
grove  tells  me  the  London  servants  say  he  gets  harder  to 
please  every  day." 

"Aye,"  answered  the  widow,  "my  lord's  had  trouble." 

"Trouble!"  said  Peter,  "trouble!  Afore  I'd  let  a  woman 
spoil  my  life,  I'd — "  he  filled  the  gap  with  mysterious  nods 
and  winks,  and  turned  to  the  back'us.  "Well,  well,  time  I 
was  going.  Good-day  to  ye,  widow,  an*  mind  you  hang  that 
hare  well."  The  footsteps  rang  out  across  the  brick  floor, 
the  back'us  door  opened  and  shut,  and  the  routine  of  the  day 
went  on  as  before,  only  a  new  interest,  perhaps  the  revival  of 
an  old  one,  had  come  into  the  village,  penetrating  even  to  the 
cottage  in  the  lane. 

My  lord  was  coming — my  lord,  who  had  not  visited  Cloudes- 
ley,  save  for  a  few  hours  on  a  bleak  December  morning,  for 


Introduces  a  Lord  and  Lady  81 

seven  years.  Every  one,  even  the  children,  even  Jerry  him- 
self, knew  the  story,  still  told  with  bated  breath  and  tearful 
eyes  by  older  folk.  They  whispered  it  on  Sunday  morning, 
when  all  Cloudesley  trooped  out  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
great  folk,  and  reminded  each  other  how,  on  a  summer  morn- 
ing, more  than  eight  years  ago,  my  lord  had  brought  home 
his  beautiful  girl  wife,  one  of  the  many  daughters  of  an  old 
house  as  proud  as  the  Cloudesleys  themselves,  though  almost 
as  penniless  as  the  poorest  tenant  on  the  Cloudesley  estate. 
A  fine  thing  indeed  for  Margaret  Thurston.  She  was  to  make 
her  family's  fortune;  introduce  and  marry  those  younger  sis- 
ters who  looked  to  her  as  their  salvation,  and  push  brothers, 
who,  lacking  money  and  influence,  could  only  drop  out  in  the 
race  for  worldly  prizes.  And,  knowing  no  other  love,  she  was 
content  to  make  the  sacrifice. 

Edward  Cloudesley  loved  her — how,  only  those  nearest  to 
him  knew — with  all  the  strength  and  power  of  a  strong,  harsh 
nature,  and  with  all  its  reticence.  Though  his  years  num- 
bered few  more  than  hers,  in  character  he  was  her  senior  by 
twenty.  Unable  to  descend  to  her  level,  he  could  not  talk 
lightly,  nor  laugh  merrily,  nor  even  smile  at  her  sweet  girlish- 
ness.  Coming  from  a  home  where  love  showed  itself  a  thou- 
sand times  a  day  in  warm  kisses  and  embraces,  where  youth 
sang  and  danced,  and  troubles  were  light  as  thistledown,  the 
coldness  and  grandeur  of  Cloudesley,  the  lack  of  all  respon- 
siveness on  her  husband's  part,  told  on  a  nature  which  craved 
for  love  and  sunshine.  What  wonder  that  gradually  the  pretty 
rippling  laughter  was  hushed,  the  merry  voice  silenced,  and 
the  changing,  vivacious  face  settled  to  an  expression  of  gentle 
gravity.  The  village  mothers  nodded  at  each  other  and  smiled 
wisely. 

"It  will  pass,"  they  said,  "in  the  spring  time." 
And  in  the  spring  time  hope  returned  to  Margaret  Cloudes- 
ley.   The  child  that  was  coming  would  give  her  her  husband's 
love.     Not  the  sombre,  passionate  thing  which,  all  unknown 
to  her,  dwelt  in  the  Earl's  breast,  but  the  light,  airy  love  with 


82  When  Pan  Pipes 

which  she  had  always  been  familiar.  She  craved  for  it,  for 
mirth  and  joyousness.  And  with  young  life,  surely,  surely,  she 
told  herself,  these  would  come.  Till  then,  the  days  dragged 
heavily,  but  in  April,  when  the  bright  spring  sun  breathed  on  the 
earth  warmth  and  tenderness,  and  promise  of  life  to  come,  and 
the  pale  skies  shed  tears  for  winter's  cruelty,  Mary  Cloudesley 
was  born,  and  in  her  happiness  the  young  wife  forgot  all  harsh- 
ness and  cool  treatment,  as  frost  and  snow  are  forgotten  when 
summer  comes.  But  frost  and  snow  return.  Just  at  first,  my 
lord  showed  a  natural  affection  for  his  wife  and  pride  in  his 
offspring,  although  there  was  a  certain  disappointment  that  it 
was  not  a  boy. 

Then  came  unforeseen  trouble.  The  doctors  declared  that 
Lady  Margaret  was  not  strong  enough  to  nurse  the  child. 
In  vain  she  pleaded,  cried,  threatened.  Even  had  they  con- 
sented, my  lord  refused,  and  he  had  the  final  word.  From 
that  time  my  lady  ceased  to  take  much  interest,  and  dropped 
back  to  silence. 

And  then  Fate  took  the  first  step  towards  the  end.  A 
distant  cousin  of  my  lord's,  only  two  degrees  removed  from 
the  succession,  came  on  a  visit.  Young,  gay,  chivalrous,  what 
could  my  lady  do  but  fall  in  love!  She  to  whom  love  was 
life.  On  a  snowy  December  night,  she  fled  with  her  lover 
to  far  off  sunny  lands. 

My  lord  said  little — those  around  him  feared  the  silence 
more  than  any  violent  anger — becoming,  if  possible,  more 
morose,  more  self-centred;  a  mere  automaton,  artificial,  even 
in  an  artificial  age,  masking  every  passion — and  there  were 
deep  ones — under  a  veil  of  ceremonious  stiffness.  The  great 
house  was  shut  up,  only  the  housekeeper  and  a  few  maids 
left,  and,  taking  his  little  daughter  with  him,  my  lord  left 
Cloudesley  for  London. 

And  my  lady  ?  Report  said  that  he  refused  to  give  her  her 
freedom,  and  that  the  disappointment  and  shame  preyed  upon 
a  constitution  never  strong.  Within  a  year  they  brought  her 


Introduces  a  Lord  and  Lady  83 

back  and  laid  her  in  the  Cloudesley  vault,  my  lord  coming 
down  for  the  ceremony  only.  Now,  after  seven  years,  he 
was  returning.  Village  gossip  speculated  upon  the  likelihood 
of  a  permanent  stay,  and  decided  against  it  on  the  whole ;  but 
that  it  was  the  beginning  of  better  things  was  agreed  upon 
by  all. 

The  widow's  intelligence  was  hardly  sufficient  to  allow  of 
much  interest  in  her  neighbour's  affairs;  gossip  had  little  at- 
traction for  her,  and  she  made  hardly  any  comment  on  the 
news.  Not  so  Jerry.  He  drew  imaginary  pictures,  helped 
out  by  Betty's  vivid  descriptions,  of  the  new  comers.  He 
knew  by  this  time  that  Cloudesley  and  all  the  land  around 
belonged  to  my  lord.  He  also  knew  that  the  great  iron  gates, 
never  opened  in  his  time,  led  into  the  long  avenue,  white 
in  the  spring  with  chestnut  bloom,  which  wound  on  and  on, 
till  you  came  to  the  Hall  itself.  He  had  caught  glimpses  of 
it  on  Sunday,  for  the  chapel,  used  by  the  Catholic  tenantry, 
stood  at  the  back,  and  was  reached  by  a  pathway  skirting 
the  kitchen  gardens,  and  from  thence  through  a  shrubbery. 
After  that,  a  small  corner  of  the  pleasure  gardens  had  to  be 
crossed,  and  though  a  fence  intervened,  Jerry  could  see  vast 
stretches  of  lawns,  a  bit  of  the  broad  marble  terrace,  a  flight 
of  steps  leading  down,  and  some  of  the  great  white  statues 
which  stood  at  intervals  along  the  balustrading. 

A  fairy  palace!  And  many  were  the  fancies  which  crept 
into  the  child's  brain  at  the  sight.  It  was  something  to  look 
for  every  Sunday.  How  he  wished  Mrs.  Chubbe  would  not 
hurry  so;  if  only  he  could  be  left  to  gaze  and  gaze  into  the 
enchanted  grounds. 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  he  joined  the  inn  party  with  a 
certain  amount  of  excitement,  for  at  last  he  was  to  see  some 
of  the  inmates  of  the  Palace  Beautiful.  My  Ladies  Karen 
and  Keziah,  it  is  true,  could  not  actually  be  called  inmates, 
as  they  dwelt  in  the  Dower  House,  a  fine  old  mansion  sit- 
uated in  the  grounds  and  surrounded  by  its  own  gardens. 


84  When  Pan  Pipes 

The  inn  folk  were  used  to  the  coming  and  going  of  the 
"gentry."  They  showed  no  excitement,  only  an  extra  ad- 
monition to  the  children  to  behave  themselves  and  listen  atten- 
tively. 

"For  'tisn't  Father  Andrew  now,  'tis  Father  Francis — he's 
comin'  with  my  lord,"  said  Mrs.  Chubbe,  tying  Betty's  muffa- 
tee  with  a  vigorous  jerk.  "So  mind  you  don't  forget  the 
text." 

"Aye,"  echoed  the  farmer.  "He'll  be  comin'  to  see  you, 
Jerry  lad;  Father  Francis  don't  let  the  grass  grow  under  his 
feet." 

Jerry's  heart  quailed.  He  liked  Father  Andrew,  the  fat, 
cheery  little  priest  who  came  over  from  Channington  to  take 
duty  for  Father  Francis,  my  lord's  chaplain,  when  he  was  in 
London.  It  is  true  that  during  his  reign  the  village  was  apt 
to  grow  slack  in  its  religious  observances,  for,  as  Father 
Andrew  said,  "he  couldn't  be  in  two  places  at  once,"  and  Chan- 
nington needed  all  it  could  get  in  the  way  of  spiritual  and 
bodily  help.  Besides  which,  to  get  over  once  a  week  during 
the  winter  weather  meant  much;  it  was  impossible  to  do  so 
twice.  So,  for  some  months,  if  my  lord  needed  his  chaplain, 
Cloudesley  went  without  clerical  comfort,  and  to  all  appear- 
ance, was  little  the  worse. 

The  congregation  seemed  conscious  of  a  tighter  hand  over 
them  than  usual.  There  was  no  whispering;  even  the  chil- 
dren fidgeted  less,  and  the  grown-ups  sat  straight  and  prim 
as  though  never  in  their  lives  had  an  impulse  to  nod  during 
the  sermon  overtaken  them. 

Jerry  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  great  oaken  pew,  white 
cushioned,  with  a  white  padded  shelf  in  front.  Once  in,  the 
ladies  would  be  lost  to  sight,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  miss- 
ing their  entry.  A  glance  at  the  gallery,  which  ran  along  the 
western  end  and  was  reserved  for  the  servants,  told  him  that 
Mrs.  Lovegrove  and  the  few  maids  left  at  the  Hall,  were  there, 
and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  new  faces. 

But  the  survey  was  short.    "Don't  turn  round  in  church," 


85 


came  Mrs.  Chubbe's  warning,  and  again  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  pew. 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  stir  in  the  congrega- 
tion. The  little  door  leading  from  the  Hall  to  the  chapel 
opened  softly,  and  two  ladies  entered,  making  their  way  across. 
Lady  Karen  led  the  way,  stately  and  tall,  proud  and  haughty. 
Behind  her  came  my  Lady  Kezzy,  short  and  plump,  with  a  fair, 
comely  face,  and  a  pretty  bloom,  in  spite  of  her  forty  odd 
years  and  hair  streaked  with  grey,  now  neatly  banded  back 
under  the  great  bonnet.  Both  ladies  wore  stiff  flowered  silk 
dresses  and  rich  furs,  and,  as  they  passed,  Jerry  caught  a  whiff 
of  sweetness.  Betty  was  prepared.  At  the  first  sound  of  the 
opening  of  the  door,  she  sat  with  distended  nostrils,  ready  to 
take  in  the  full  delight  of  it. 

"The  ladies  always  have  sweet  stuff  on  their  pocket  hand- 
kerchiefs," she  whispered.  "Isn't  it  lovely,  Jerry  ?  .When  I'm 
grown  up,  I  shall  put  it  on  all  my  clothes." 

Mrs.  Chubbe  frowned  and  uttered  a  loud,  though  somewhat 
abstracted,  "Sh — sh — sh."  The  ladies  were  familiar  figures 
enough,  but  the  tall  figure  following  his  sisters  rivetted  all 
eyes.  Little  altered  was  my  lord  the  villagers  said,  when 
comparing  notes ;  more  lined,  sterner  if  possible,  and  the  beard 
and  long  side  whiskers  were  iron  grey  instead  of  dark.  There 
was  a  sigh  of  relaxed  tension  as  the  door  of  the  pew  shut 
with  a  click,  and  its  inmates  were  lost  to  view.  A  moment 
after,  Father  Francis  entered,  and  the  service  began.  To 
Jerry  it  was  always  a  pleasure.  The  beautiful  words — fa- 
miliar, and  perhaps  understood  as  well  as  the  prayers  of  the 
Established  Church  are  understood  by  a  child — the  sweet 
music,  the  flickering  light  and  flowers,  carried  him  into  a 
world  of  his  own.  To-day  there  was  an  added  interest,  for 
with  my  lord  came  his  friend  Count  de  Cosse,  whose  father 
was  a  refugee  when  France  went  through  the  time  of  her 
madness.  He  owned  Grey  Towers,  an  old  mansion  of  grey 
stone — hence  the  name — about  a  mile  distant,  and  was  in  all 
but  appearance  and  name  an  English  gentleman. 


86  When  Pan  Pipes 

He  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  chancel,  accompanied  by 
his  son,  a  child  of  Jerry's  age,  and,  for  the  first  time  since 
Margery  left  him,  the  boy  was  conscious  of  clothes  past  their 
first  freshness,  and  of  hands  stained  and  grimed  with  toil. 
Old  words  of  daddy's  came  back,  bringing  a  rush  of  tears  to 
his  eyes  and  a  pain  to  his  heart. 

"Keep  yourself  clean  and  neat,  Jerry  boy.  Remember, 
you're  a  gentleman,  and  gentlemen  are  always  particular." 

So,  remembering,  he  resolved  that  if  his  clothes  were  not 
so  fine,  he  could  at  least  be  as  clean  as  the  little  pale-faced 
boy,  who  sat  in  the  great  pew  like  a  very  small  kernel  in  a 
very  large  nut,  and  stared  at  Betty  as  though  he  would  like 
to  know  and  play  with  her. 

But  not  for  long  did  his  thoughts  wander;  he  was  con- 
scious all  the  time  of  a  tall  thin  figure,  a  pair  of  keen  eyes 
which  saw  everything,  might  even  know  what  was  going  on 
inside  a  little  boy's  mind.  The  voice,  too,  attracted  him. 
Not  strident,  not  piercing,  not  full  nor  low,  but  a  mixture, 
to  which  was  added  a  resonance  which  thrilled  and  thrilled 
till  Jerry  felt  as  though  it  went  straight  through  him.  Betty, 
too,  for  a  time,  was  unusually  attentive;  but  long  before  the 
end,  Mrs.  Chubbe  had  to  frown  severely  and  administer  sun- 
dry taps  as  a  foretaste  of  what  might  come  after. 

It  came  to  an  end  at  last.  The  door  of  the  pew  opened 
and  the  ladies  came  out.  Lady  Karen  with  her  head  held 
high  and  her  eyes  looking  straight  before  her,  Lady  Kezzy 
casting  a  wistful  glance  at  the  benches,  as  though  she  would 
have  liked  a  little  chat  and  gossip  with  their  occupants.  But 
she  followed  her  sister,  the  small  door  closed  behind  them, 
and  with  a  stir  of  relief,  the  congregation  prepared  to  go  home. 
Quick  as  they  were,  Father  Francis  was  quicker.  Clad  in  his 
long,  black  cassock,  he  stood  at  the  door  of  the  chapel  shaking 
hands  and  exchanging  a  few  words  with  each  parishioner. 
As  the  little  party  came  along,  he  put  out  an  arresting  hand. 

"Wait,  I  have  something  to  say." 

The  farmer  touched  his  hat  and  walked  slowly  on,  halt- 


Introduces  a  Lord  and  Lady  87 

ing  at  intervals  to  see  if  it  was  time  to  turn  back.  When 
the  last  greeting  was  over,  the  priest  ran  lightly  down  the 
steps  and  joined  him.  After  a  few  friendly  inquiries  his 
tone  changed ;  he  turned  to  the  farmer. 

"Now,  Chubbe,  what's  this  I  hear  about  the  child?  How 
came  he  to  go  to  Mrs.  Hagges,  a  Protestant,  nay,  more,  a 
Methodist?  Who  sent  him?" 

"His  old  nurse,  your  Reverence,  did  most  of  the  business. 
The  father  was  too  ill."  The  priest  nodded. 

"I  know."  The  voice  was  quick,  yet  each  word  clear  and 
sharp.  "I  saw  him  once  or  twice  before  I  left.  A  Catholic, 
though  not  perhaps  as  strict  as  one  would  like.  He  was  buried, 
of  course,  with  the  full  rites  of  the  Church?"  The  voice  had 
a  note  of  concerned  inquiry. 

"Yes,  your  Reverence;  Father  Andrew  was  very  good/' 

"No  doubt — no  doubt.  Well,  well — about  the  child.  He  is 
paid  for,  I  understand." 

Mrs.  Chubbe,  waiting  her  opportunity,  chimed  in. 

"Aye,  Father,  he's  paid  for  right  enough;  widow  isn't  one 
to  give,  even  if  she  had  it,  which  she  hasn't.  'Tisn't  much, 
for  I  asked  her;  Mrs.  Marvin  wasn't  one  to  talk  of  her 
affairs.  A  pound  a  month  she's  getting,  an'  she'll  save  on't. 
The  child  don't  eat  that  much,  an'  he's  a  good  lad — quiet  an' 
well  behaved.  I'd  have  had  him,  an'  been  thankful,  but  she 
settled  things." 

The  priest  looked  grave,  even  stern.  "Yes,  it's  a  pity, 
Mrs.  Chubbe.  Knowing  the  circumstances,  you  should  have 
insisted — or  written  to  me;  I  would  have  made  arrangements. 
As  it  is,  I  can  do  nothing;  it  must  go  now.  I  hear  the  nurse 
returns  in  a  year?" 

"Yes,  your  Reverence."  It  was  the  fanner  who  answered ; 
his  wife  wore  an  air  of  injured  dignity.  Too  much  in  awe 
of  the  priest  to  make  excuses,  she  felt  herself  unjustly  ac- 
cused. That  Jerry  was  with  the  widow  was  none  of  her 
doing. 

Father  Francis  stopped,  beckoned  the  children,  and  lifted 


88  When  Pan  Pipes 

his  hand  in  benediction.  Betty  and  her  mother  curtseyed, 
the  farmer  and  Jerry  stood  bareheaded;  then,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  resumed  their  way,  Mrs.  Chubbe's  tongue,  let  loose, 
commenting  tartly  on  the  priest's  words. 

It  was  on  the  Tuesday  that  Jerry  was  called  in  by  the  widow, 
and  found  the  tall  thin  figure  standing  by  the  fireside. 

It  was  a  short  visit ;  he  was  put  through  his  catechism,  told 
to  be  a  good  boy,  and  after  a  short  but  courteous  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Hagges,  the  priest  departed. 

A  visitor  was  a  rara  avis,  and  the  excitement  lasted  the 
rest  of  the  week;  then  something  came  along  which  put  Fa- 
ther Francis,  the  ladies  at  the  Dower  House,  even  Betty,  out 
of  his  mind.  It  was  on  the  Sunday  evening,  as  he  started  for 
home,  that  Mrs.  Chubbe  suddenly  called  to  him. 

"Stop  a  bit,  child.  There's  a  something  I've  got  for  you." 
Jerry  turned  back  willingly  to  the  bright  warm  kitchen.  Pres- 
ently Mrs.  Chubbe  returned. 

"There,"  she  thrust  a  heavy  packet  into  his  arms.  "You 
can  look  at  it  when  you  get  back;  don't  stop  now.  Turning 
out  a  cupboard  I  came  across  it,  an'  thought  you'd  like  to 
have  it,  maybe.  Now  hurry,  child ;  you'll  be  late." 

Jerry  ran  off,  hugging  his  parcel  and  wondering  what  it 
contained.  It  was  shapeless,  and  as  he  held  it,  had  a  soft 
feel  about  it,  unlike  anything  he  could  think  of,  yet  with  a 
strange  unaccountable  familiarity.  Once  in  his  little  room 
he  hastened  to  undo  it.  Off  with  the  string,  off  with  the 
paper,  and  the  contents  were  revealed,  bringing  back  with  a 
rush,  memories,  visions,  loved  faces  grown  dim  in  a  childish 
mind  with  the  passing  of  months. 

It  was  only  a  lump  of  modelling  clay,  such  as  daddy  had 
used,  and  which  had  been  almost  part  and  parcel  of  his  life. 
The  new  era  had  completely  obliterated  for  the  time  much 
of  the  old  occupations,  and  the  modelling  clay  had  been  for- 
gotten as  a  child  forgets  one  thing  in  the  contemplation  of 
another. 

But  now,  mechanically  his  fingers  fell  into  the  old  familiar 


Introduces  a  Lord  and  Lady  89 

handling.  Former  interest  came  back  with  renewed  zest,  and 
before  getting  into  bed  he  had  made  a  rough  model  of  Robin 
to  show  Betty. 

That  piece  of  clay  filled  a  gap  in  the  child's  life.  In  the 
long  afternoons  when  work  was  done  and  time  hung  heavily, 
his  little  fingers  worked  and  moulded  the  plastic  stuff,  finding 
new  delights  in  form  and  likeness.  Everything,  Tibbie  the 
cat,  the  old  sow  in  the  sty,  even  the  widow  herself  made 
"copy."  Betty  was  enchanted  with  the  new  pastime. 

"Let  me  try,  Jerry,"  was  her  first  comment,  and  Jerry 
willingly  gave  up  his  prize,  but  the  quick  restless  fingers  had 
no  power  over  the  clay,  and  presently  she  threw  it  away 
pettishly. 

"It's  silly  stuff,  Jerry,"  she  cried.  "Don't  let's  have  it ;  you 
can  do  it  when  I'm  not  here."  But  when  he  showed  the  wid- 
ow's effigy,  Betty's  delight  knew  no  bounds.  There  certainly 
was  a  little  likeness,  enough  to  catch  the  uncritical  eye  of 
childhood.  She  hopped  round  on  one  foot. 

"Do  me,  Jerry.  Do  me — do  me — do  me — "  And  vain  lit-> 
tie  puss  as  she  was,  there  was  no  restlessness  as  Jerry's  pa- 
tient fingers  set  to  work  to  reproduce  the  small  face,  irregular 
provoking  features,  and  thick  curling  masses  of  hair  that 
crowned  them. 

Winter  passed.  Jerry's  chapped  and  chilblained  hands  re- 
gained their  ordinary  size,  and  the  garret  lost  the  feeling  of 
an  ice  well.  Margery  and  Daddy  had  been  gone  six  months ; 
it  might  have  been  six  years,  so  long  did  it  seem.  But  there 
would  be  a  letter  soon.  Day  by  day  he  looked  for  it ;  Sunday 
after  Sunday,  Mrs.  Chubbe  put  the  same  question. 

"Have  you  got  news  yet,  child,  of  Mrs.  Marvin?" 

Early  in  March  it  came,  and  Jerry  stood,  to  all  appear- 
ance quietly,  yet  inwardly  all  eager  impatience,  by  the  widow's 
side,  as  she  slowly  undid  the  cover  and  drew  forth  the  pre- 
cious sheets.  But  an  unforeseen  difficulty  arose.  In  the 
widow's  young  days  education  had  been  little  thought  of. 
She  could  read  print,  slowly  to  be  sure,  yet  enough  for  ordi- 


90  When  Pan  Pipes 

nary  purposes.  Handwriting  was  beyond  her,  and  though  she 
shook  her  head  solemnly  many  times,  the  fact  remained  that 
the  letter  must  stay  unread  till  someone  turned  up  with  a 
knowledge  greater  than  that  of  the  inmates  of  the  cottage. 

On  Sunday  Jerry  ventured  to  suggest  that  Mrs.  Chubbe  was 
a  bit  of  a  scholar,  but  the  widow  refused,  vehemently  for  her, 
to  let  it  go  out  of  her  hands. 

"Who  knows,  child,  you'd  be  droppin'  it  or  losin'  it,  an' 
then  wher'd  we  be?  Bide  quiet  a  bit;  I'll  get  it  read." 

"But  Mrs.  Chubbe  will  ask  me,"  urged  Jerry. 

"Then  you  can  say  that  Mrs.  Marvin's  well,  an'  sends  her 
love,  an'  is  comin'  back  in  a  year." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey.  Secretly  Jerry  de- 
termined that  he  would  not  give  the  widow's  version.  What 
he  would  do  was  undetermined  when  he  set  out,  but  circum- 
stances, such  as  a  passionate  outburst  from  Betty  on  the  sub- 
ject of  clothes,  a  rainy  morning,  which  generally  upset  Mrs. 
Chubbe's  temper,  and  the  spoiling  of  the  dinner  by  a  careless 
kitchen  wench,  took  away  all  interest  in  other  matters,  and 
Jerry  went  unquestioned. 

Truth  to  tell,  the  widow  was  perturbed  in  her  mind.  Like 
many  ignorant  people  when  doing  wrong,  she  had  not  looked 
forward  nor  provided  for  contingencies.  The  letter  might 
contain  an  allusion  to  the  money  paid,  might  even  mention 
the  sum,  and  she  foresaw  not  only  one  difficulty,  but  many. 
To  keep  the  contents  secret  was  impossible;  a  third  person 
was  bound  to  know  them,  and  for  some  time,  as  she  went 
about  her  work,  her  face  wore  a  worried  expression.  It  was 
not  until  the  dinner  was  set  going,  and  she  had  tidied  herself 
for  the  Sunday  visitor,  that  the  solution,  really  so  simple, 
dawned  upon  her.  Mr.  Padden,  of  course,  a  scholar  who 
could  read  writing  as  easy  as  shelling  peas.  To  be  sure,  should 
the  money  be  mentioned,  he  must  know,  but — the  widow 
nodded  and  winked  to  herself — there  were  wheels  within 
wheels.  It  might  be  to  Mr.  Padden's  interest  to  keep  silent. 
If  nothing  was  said,  the  letter  could  be  common  property. 


91 


All  things  considered,  Mrs.  Hagges  felt  that  the  fates  were 
kind.  She  dished  the  dinner  with  a  light  heart — the  boiled 
batter  pudding,  light  and  yellow,  with  thick  gravy;  a  small 
piece  of  beef,  Sunday's  treat,  with  cabbages  and  potatoes  from 
her  own  garden;  then  peeped  into  a  saucepan,  boiling  on  the 
crane,  at  the  rhubarb  pudding,  whose  basin  protested  and 
fought  violently  with  the  bubbling,  boiling  water. 

On  the  stroke  of  half-past  twelve  the  minister  arrived.  He 
was  a  tall  man,  wearing  shiny  broadcloth  and  a  soft  hat. 
Thin,  almost  to  emaciation,  with  that  curious  air  of  an  inward 
fire  burning  which  marks  the  fanatic — more  especially  the  type 
common  at  the  beginning  of  the  igth  century,  the  man  of  no 
education,  of  low  birth,  who,  suddenly  finding  through  non- 
conformity a  path  opened  to  power  and  authority,  developed 
fanaticism,  a  fanaticism  which,  in  not  a  few  cases,  led  to 
something  more  dangerous,  even  to  madness. 

He  stooped,  not  with  the  gentle  curve  which  marks  the 
scholar,  but  rather  from  inertness,  or  possibly,  constitutional 
weakness.  It  was  doubtless  from  the  same  cause  that  his 
face  was  pale,  almost  to  ghastliness,  but  on  one  side,  half 
covering  his  cheek  and  stretching  up  to  the  forehead,  was 
a  patch  known  by  the  village  as  a  "strawberry  mark,"  which 
at  times  was  indistinct,  but,  when  its  owner  was  agitated  or 
excited,  would  glow  a  deep  purple  red,  giving  an  appearance 
almost  sinister  in  comparison  with  the  pallor  of  the  other 
side.  His  hair,  dark  and  straight  and  thick  as  a  door  mat, 
was  worn  rather  long  on  the  shoulders.  Contrary  to  cus- 
tom, when  cravats  and  stocks  clothed  nearly  all  male  necks, 
he  affected  a  low  collar,  which,  combined  with  the  long  hair, 
gave  him  a  dishevelled  look.  His  gestures  were  wild,  and 
a  pair  of  dark  eyes  were  the  only  redeeming  point  in  a  some- 
what unpleasant  personality.  But  each  eye  makes  its  own 
beauty;  to  the  widow,  Mr.  Padden  was  a  god  come  upon 
earth,  and  the  Sunday  was  to  her  perhaps  even  more  than  it 
was  to  Jerry. 

For  six  months  now  she  had  played  hostess  once  a  week; 


92  When  Pan  Pipes 

previous  to  that  the  minister  had  lodged  with  George  Bray, 
who  kept  the  village  shop.  His  daughter,  Hester,  a  fine, 
handsome  girl  of  twenty,  had  done  for  the  two  men;  gossip 
said  that,  among  her  many  admirers,  the  minister  stood  first. 
But  the  minister's  income  was  small,  his  wants  many.  Hes- 
ter, too,  had  dreams  of  something  better  than  the  small  dark 
shop,  and  the  monotonous  tasks  of  cleaning  and  cooking,  only 
varied  by  measuring  off  with  a  yard  rule,  lengths  of  calico, 
or  serving  tallow  dips  and  parcels  of  groceries.  Like  many 
another,  each  wanted  to  eat  the  cake  and  have  it — a  thing 
seemingly  impossible,  yet  which  can  occasionally  be  managed. 
Hester  took  the  first  step  by  suddenly  announcing  that  she 
was  going  to  marry  Roger  Dyke,  thatcher  to  Cloudesley  and 
the  neighbouring  villages.  A  man  thirty  years  her  senior,  he 
was  able  to  give  her  a  lift  towards  the  things  she  longed  for. 

After  she  had  gone,  her  father,  with  the  assistance  of  an 
elderly  woman  who  came  in  the  mornings,  looked  after  his 
lodger;  but  the  charm  of  a  woman's  presence  was  missing, 
and  when  the  widow  threw  out  hints  of  loneliness  and  enough 
for  two,  the  minister  leaped  to  the  bait,  matters  adjusted 
themselves,  and  Sunday  became  a  red  letter  day  in  the  widow's 
week. 

He  entered  by  the  front  way — only  used  on  special  occa- 
sions. The  widow,  behind  the  door,  curtseyed  as  she  opened 
it,  divided  between  reverence  for  one  so  lately  come  from  the 
pulpit  and  the  familiarity  of  many  dinners.  The  minister 
still  wore  the  expression  affected  by  one  in  authority — stern, 
yet  benign,  lofty,  rapt,  yet  ever  ready  to  decline  to  the  wants 
of  his  flock.  As  he  took  the  widow's  hand  in  his  the  look 
changed  to  one  of  pastoral  friendship,  and  he  gazed  upon  her 
with  what  was  meant  for  Christian  charity.  Whether  the 
widow  was  deceived,  was  a  question. 

"I  trust  I  see  you  well,  dear  friend?"  Again  the  widow 
curtseyed ;  it  took  a  few  minutes  to  establish  familiarity. 

"Thank  you,  yes,"  she  replied  in  her  most  superior  tone, 
"I'm  as  well  as  can  be  expected." 


93 


"That's  good,  friend."  He  hung  his  hat  on  the  peg  beside 
Jerry's  everyday  one,  and  rubbed  his  hands  as  he  inhaled 
the  pleasant  combination  of  cooking  and  warmth  drifting  from 
the  kitchen.  The  widow  opened  the  door  of  the  front  room. 

"Go  in,  minister,  and  rest  yourself;  you'll  be  tired  with 
the  preaching."  Mr.  Padden  inclined  his  head  graciously, 
stepped  in,  and  taking  a  seat  in  the  low  chair  by  the  fire, 
rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  joining  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together  with  a  look  of  proud  yet  humble  retrospection. 

"Aye,  the  flesh  truly  is  weak;  yet  what  matter,  if,  from 
the  fountain  of  our  belief,  we  can  refresh  strangers.  If 
we  can  give  of  our  store  to  the  poor  and  needy — if,  in  the 
bottomless  well  of  love,  sparkling,  clear,  yet  never  lessening, 
ever  the  same,  we  can  plunge  our  weak  souls,  emerging  fresh, 
unstained,  cleansed  from  every  iniquity." 

He  had  risen  during  this  speech,  turning  up  his  eyes,  throw- 
ing his  arms  in  wild  gestures,  intoxicated  with  the  passion  of 
words  and  the  rolling  sentences.  The  widow,  moving  softly 
round  the  table,  listened  abstractedly,  shook  her  head,  groaned 
in  the  most  approved  way  of  the  congregation,  and  threw  in 
an  occasional  "Surely,  surely,"  while  she  adjusted  knives  and 
forks,  smoothed  salt  in  the  silver  salt  cellars — heirlooms,  only 
brought  out  in  company  with  the  best  china — and  gazed  with 
a  housewifely  eye  on  the  dinner  table. 

The  minister  subsided,  exhausted,  into  the  easy  chair,  closed 
his  eyes  and  held  his  forehead,  while  his  hostess  took  the  op- 
portunity to  slip  out  and  bring  in  the  batter  pudding.  Her 
visitor  roused  himself  and  took  the  seat  opposite  with  smiling 
ease. 

"Kindly  ask  a  blessing,  Mr.  Padden,"  said  the  widow. 

He  pushed  the  chair  back,  rose,  closed  his  eyes,  flung  back 
his  hair,  lifted  one  hand,  and  plunged  into  the  long  address 
which,  at  that  time,  preceded  and  followed  every  noncon- 
formist meal.  The  widow  sighed  in  unison,  her  thoughts  wan- 
dering to  the  batter  pudding  under  the  cover,  which  was  rap- 
idly losing  its  plump  roundness  and  steaming  heat. 


When  Pan  Pipes 


The  discourse  came  to  an  end  with  a  long  drawn  "A-a-men," 
and  the  dinner  proceeded  in  unbroken  silence,  except  for  the 
widow's  hospitable  remarks  and  a  few  complimentary  com- 
ments from  the  visitor.  The  atmosphere  of  piety  passed,  and 
the  minister  became  much  as  other  men,  save  for  an  occasional 
lapse  into  rhapsody.  Mrs.  Hagges  cleared  away,  washed  up, 
tidied  the  kitchen  grate,  and  hung  the  kettle  on  for  tea.  Then 
washed  herself,  and,  taking  the  letter  from  a  drawer,  returned 
to  the  sitting-room.  The  minister,  slumbering  peacefully  by 
the  fireside,  woke  up  at  her  entrance. 

"Sit  ye  down,  dear  friend.  You'll  be  weary  with  your  hos- 
pitable duties."  The  widow  obeyed.  Sunday  was  a  tiring 
day,  but  it  had  its  compensations.  She  plunged  into  her  sub- 
ject. 

"I've  had  a  letter,  minister,  from  the  child's  nurse,  Mrs. 
Marvin,  in  Canada.  I  thought  maybe  you'd  kindly  read  it  for 
me." 

"Surely,  surely  will  I,"  replied  the  minister,  and  he  meant 
it,  curiosity  being  not  the  least  of  his  passions.  He  took 
the  letter,  spread  it  out  with  an  air  of  superior  wisdom,  glanced 
casually  over  the  sheets,  hummed,  ha'd,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  finally  leaning  back  in  the  chair,  began  to  read. 

"My  dear,  dear  little  Master  Jerry. 

"George,  that's  my  sister's  husband,  is  writing  down  just 
what  I  tell  him.  We  hope  you're  well  and  hearty,  as  this 
leaves  us,  though  once  I  get  back  to  dear  old  England,  wild 
horses  shan't  drag  me  over  the  water  again.  We  were  very 
ill,  the  journey  after  we  landed  being  worse  than  the  voy- 
age; for  we  had  to  go  for  many  days  in  a  cart,  and  there 
were  Indians  and  wild  animals,  and  every  night  I  thought 
would  be  my  last.  It  took  us  some  weeks,  and  when  you'll 
have  this  letter  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

"Well,  my  dearie,  I  hope  you're  quite  well,  and  don't 
forget  old  Margie  and  all  she  taught  you;  and  say  your 
prayers  every  night  and  morning.  Give  my  best  respects 


Introduces  a  Lord  and  Lady  95 

to  Mrs.  Chubbe  and  all  the  folks  at  the  inn.  Mrs.  Hagges, 
if  you  read  this  letter  to  the  child,  I  hope  you  get  the  money 
all  right,  and  please  see  that  his  little  clothes  are  well  aired, 
and  don't  let  him  take  off  his  warm  things  till  May  be  turned. 
And  please,  Mrs.  Hagges,  will  you  see  that  he  gets  some 
schooling — there's  money  enough,  I  think — it's  cheap,  or 
he'll  be  forgetting  all  his  learning.  And  now,  my  dearie,  I 
must  finish.  It  won't  be  long  now  afore  I  come  back,  and 
we'll  be  so  happy,  Master  Jerry,  my  lamb.  And  so  I  remain. 
"Your  affectionate  old  nurse, 

"MARGIE." 

There  were  crosses  underneath  which  meant  kisses,  but  of 
these  the  widow  took  no  notice.  The  letter  was  sufficiently 
non-committal,  except  the  bit  about  the  schooling.  The  min- 
ister folded  the  paper  and  handed  it  back  thoughtfully. 

"It  is  a  charge,  dear  friend,  doubtless  a  blessed  one,  but 
children  are  children,  even  the  best,  and  demand  much  care. 
Yet  there  are  compensations ;  their  sweet  friendship  and  cling- 
ing trust,  not  to  speak  of  pecuniary  gratitude,  which  in  this 
child's  case,  no  doubt,  is  ample.". 

He  stole  a  glance  as  he  uttered  the  last  words,  but  the  widow 
was  not  to  be  caught. 

"True,  true,"  she  murmured.     The  minister  tried  again. 

"In  the  matter  of  schooling,  of  which  she  speaks,  Father 
Francis,  a  man  of  education,  would  advise  you  more  com- 
pletely than  I,  who  am  but  a  humble  disciple,  self-taught, 
yet  perhaps  in  some  ways  equal,  I  will  not  say  superior,  to 
a  priest  of  the  Scarlet  Woman."  The  subject  was  a  favourite 
for  ranting  rhapsody.  Like  many  of  the  early  nonconform- 
ists, he  held  a  strong  antagonism  to  the  Established  Church — 
still  more  to  the  Church  of  Rome.  His  voice  rose,  the  thin 
hands  gesticulated. 

"Of  anti-Christ,"  he  went  on,  "who  sits  in  Peter's  chair, 
and  holds  the  keys  of  hell  in  his  hands,  stained  by  the  blood 
of  martyrs.  But  the  keys  of  Heaven,  we — "  he  stood  up, 


96  When  Pan  Pipes 

and  slapped  his  thin  chest  till  it  echoed  with  a  hollow  sound, 
"we — who  have  cut  ourselves  adrift  from  a  corrupt  and  vi- 
cious church,  who  have  built  a  fold  for  the  lost  sheep  of 
Israel,  hold  in  our  hands.  And  now  we  stretch  out  our  arms," 
he  suited  the  action  to  the  words,  advancing  upon  the  widow, 
who  gave  a  little  shriek  and  retreated — "and  say  'Come,  come 
to  the  Bridegroom's  Supper,  all  ye  that  do  hunger  or  thirst — 
for  ours  is  the  true  fold.'  And  the  day  dawns  when  anti- 
Christ  shall  be  hurled  from  his  pinnacle,  and  the  Scarlet 
Woman  dragged  through  the  dust,  her  beauty  despoiled,  her 
gorgeous  robes  torn  and  defiled.  Her  priests  and  ministers 
shall  fall  with  her,  and  Babylon,  Great  Babylon,  shall  be  de- 
stroyed." 

The  widow  stared  open-mouthed;  she  was  used  to  these 
tirades,  but  they  never  palled.  The  long  words  and  highly 
coloured  metaphors,  though  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of 
their  meaning,  impressed  her  greatly,  and  her  heart  swelled 
with  pride  that  to  her  had  fallen  the  honour  and  privilege 
of  being  sole  listener  to  such  wonderful  sayings.  It  was  like 
being  the  only  one  at  chapel. 

The  minister  sank  back  in  his  chair  exhausted,  but  by  no 
means  at  an  end.  "And  so,  dear  friend,  we  return  to  our 
first  thoughts — the  choice  of  an  adviser  for  the  child." 

The  widow  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  "I'm  none  so  sure 
that  I  shall  want  an  adviser,"  she  said,  "the  child's  fully  young, 
an'  the  money — "  the  listener  pricked  up  his  ears,  "whatever 
Mrs.  Marvin  may  say — is  none  too  much.  A  grown'  lad's 
food  costs  somethin',  an'  then  there's  his  clothes — he'll  be 
wantin'  more  soon — an'  his  washing,  let  alone  the  care  an' 
anxiety." 

During  this  speech — long  for  the  widow,  and  uttered  slowly 
— the  minister  inclined  his  head  gravely  several  times,  opening 
and  shutting  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  closing  his  eyes  as 
though  in  rapt  attention. 

"Ay,  surely — "  he  repeated  at  the  end,  "though  to  Mrs. 
Marvin,  who  has  been  in  service  so  long,  and  perchance  has 


97 


forgotten  the  cost  of  a  house,  the  sum  may  seem  fully  ade- 
quate." 

"That's  as  may  be,"  replied  the  widow,  somewhat  tartly. 
She  had  no  intention  of  letting  the  real  amount  leak  out,  and 
conscience  forbade  a  lie  to  the  minister.  "But  anyway  I'll 
bide  a  bit,  till  spring's  past.  And  now,  minister,"  she  rose 
stiffly,  "you'll  be  glad  of  your  tea." 

The  minister  smiled  a  meek  assent,  inwardly  wondering  what 
the  sum  really  was.  Report  said  a  pound,  but  some  years' 
knowledge  of  his  hostess  told  him  differently.  Moreover, 
whatever  it  might  be,  he  knew  it  to  be  considerably  more  than 
enough.  The  widow,  unintelligent  as  she  was  to  all  appear- 
ance, had  the  wisdom  of  the  children  of  this  world,  and  could 
strike  a  bargain  with  the  sharpest. 

He  dropped  the  subject  for  the  present,  trusting  to  chance 
and  his  own  diplomacy  to  bring  it  up  again  more  effectually. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   GOOSE-GIRL,   THE   SWINEHERD,   A   FAIRY   GODMOTHER, 
AND   A   KNIGHT 

THERE  is  a  period  in  the  lives  of  all  young  things  when 
Nature  seems  to  watch  and  brood,  as  though  wondering 
in  which  particular  niche  she  will  place  them — a  period  of 
arrested  life  seemingly — in  which  the  chrysalis  in  the  cocoon, 
the  little  brown  seed  in  the  earth,  the  child  in  its  monotony 
of  days  and  nights,  alike  share.  Yet,  what  we  call  stagnation 
is  in  reality  inward  growth.  One  day  the  chrysalis  bursts  its 
cocoon,  emerging  in  fuller  beauty,  the  seed  breaks  through  to 
outward  expansion,  the  child,  slowest  growth  of  all,  awakes 
dimly  to  a  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 

Little  Jerry's  sleeping  time  was  over.  The  veil,  so  misty, 
so  fine,  once  torn,  can  never  be  replaced.  The  child's  mind, 
fed  by  his  father  on  song,  story,  romance,  and  legend,  was 
breaking  its  bonds,  and,  through  a  dim  haze,  life's  many  paths 
spread  themselves  before  him.  It  remained  only  for  the  small 
feet  to  choose.  Though  happier  children  might  be  set  in  the 
way  by  their  elders,  even  accompanied  along  many  miles,  yet 
the  child  must  find  its  own  goal  in  the  end — only,  perhaps, 
the  time  of  inward  growth  may  be  influenced  by  its  surround- 
ings. 

In  the  iron  grip  of  winter  the  little  village  of  Cloudesley 
lay  a  prisoner.  Icebound  were  the  rippling  brooks  and 
sparkling  springs ;  white,  white,  like  winding  sheets,  the  green 
meadows  round ;  black  and  shining  the  wide  street  where  the 
snow  was  swept.  Drifts,  shoulder  high,  lay  in  the  lanes,  in 
lonely  roads,  in  the  little  garden,  and  oh!  the  water  at  the 

pump  was  cold. 

98 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  99 

Summer's  beauty,  Autumn's  melancholy,  Winter's  cruelty, 
Jerry  had  known;  but  Spring  is  love  and  gentleness,  and 
glorious  hope.  Jerry  heard  her  coming — it  is  the  harp's  finer 
strings  which  respond  first.  Far,  far  away  came  the  tinkling 
of  water  running  free,  the  stir  of  life  waking  in  woods  and 
lanes;  overhead  the  clear,  grey  sky  was  changing  to  palest 
blue,  and  stinging  east  winds  had  a  touch  of  soft  damp- 
ness. Spring  came  flying  with  winged  feet  that  year.  Win- 
ter fled  before  her  with  equal  pace;  Nature  raised  herself  in 
answer,  trees  budded,  and  passions  and  thoughts  roused,  and 
grew  apace.  The  spirit  of  mischief,  too,  was  abroad  and 
dwelt  in  Betty.  Mrs.  Chubbe  declared  she  could  do  nothing, 
and  called  a  consultation  with  her  husband,  a  means  only  re- 
sorted to  in  extremes. 

"The  child's  getting  past  me,  master,  an'  I  haven't  the 
time  to  be  dancing  after  her  all  day  long.  She's  that  mis- 
chievous. This  morning  she  unscrewed  the  spigot  from  the 
bunghole,  an'  would  ha'  wasted  a  cask  o'  ale,  only  Sally  heard 
it  runnin'.  Yesterday  she  pulled  over  a  basin  o'  scalding  lard 
— might  ha'  killed  herself,  but  it  missed  her  arms  and  shoul- 
ders, an'  only  spoilt  a  clean  dress  an'  pinny.  Then  she  poked 
a  stick  into  the  beehives.  'Because  it's  time  they  woke  up 
an'  worked,'  says  she.  'You  go  along  an'  do  some  yoursel',' 
says  I,  'an'  leave  the  bees  alone.  Lucky  they  didn't  sting  you 
to  death,  only  they're  sleepy  this  time  o'  the  year.'  Oh,  there's 
no  keepin'  even  with  her.  Yes,  you  can  laugh,"  she  added 
angrily,  as  the  farmer  chuckled  with  merriment  at  the  recital 
of  Betty's  wrongdoings.  "You'd  laugh  t'other  side  o'  your  face 
if  you  had  the  mindin'  of  her.  An'  she  don't  care  for  any- 
one; I've  sent  her  to  bed,  an'  whipped  her,  and  starved  her, 
but  it  don't  make  one  atom  o'  difference — directly  it's  over, 
she's  as  bad  as  ever." 

"Well,  missis,  what's  to  be  done?"  asked  the  farmer,  wiping 
his  eyes  and  striving  to  conceal  his  amusement. 

"She'll  have  to  go  to  the  dame  school.  Mrs.  Moss'll  teach 
her,  an'  keep  her  quiet.  She'll  be  out  o'  harm's  way,  an'  I'll 


100  When  Pan  Pipes 

have  some  peace,  which  there  never  will  be  as  long  as  she's 
free  to  go  seeking  mischief." 

The  farmer  nodded  approval.  The  same  idea  had  entered 
his  head,  but  he  had  kept  it  to  himself.  "If  you  want  a 
pig  to  go  to  market,  you  must  drive  him  home'ards,  an'  wim- 
men's  the  same — contrary  minded."  But  to  save  his  life  he 
could  not  disguise  a  slight  chuckle.  Mrs.  Chubbe  looked 
sharply  at  him,  changing  the  needles  of  her  stockings  as  she 
did  so. 

"Ah,  you  think  yourself  mighty  clever,  I've  no  doubt;  but 
you'd  ha'  been  cleverer  if  you'd  ha'  kept  a  still  tongue.  I 
know  what  you're  after;  you've  been  thinkin'  the  same  thing 
as  me,  but  you'd  rather  it  came  from  me.  I  know."  Mrs. 
Chubbe  nodded  her  head  wisely,  and  her  husband  gave  another 
amused  chuckle,  making  no  denial. 

His  wife  did  not  let  grass  grow  under  her  feet.  The  follow- 
ing Monday  was  fixed  for  Betty's  entry  into  the  world  of 
letters,  and  Sunday  was  devoted  to  discussion.  Jerry  was  in- 
formed on  his  arrival,  but  the  true  pow-wow  didn't  come  till 
the  afternoon.  Jerry  listened  somewhat  wistfully. 

"I  wish  I  was  going,  Betty." 

"So  do  I,  Jerry.  But  I'll  teach  you  all  I  learn;  you'll  like 
that,  won't  you?  You  see,"  she  added  wisely,  "I'm  going 
because  I'm  naughty.  Somehow — "  she  gave  a  sigh,  "I  can't 
help  it.  Aunt  Martha  says,  'Think,  Betty,'  but  I  can't  think 
till  afterwards — I  wish  I  could.  But  you're  always  good,  Jerry. 
Uncle  Matt  says  so." 

Jerry  sat  thoughtfully  silent.  "I  suppose  it's  because  I'm 
a  quiet  little  boy ;  Mrs.  Hagges  says  I  am,  but  sometimes  I  feel 
very,  very  naughty  inside." 

"I  don't,"  said  Betty  naively.  "I  feel  sorry— a  little— 
afterwards.  But  I  don't  feel  really  naughty — only  I  can't 
help  doing  naughty  things."  Jerry  shook  his  head ;  such  logic 
was  beyond  him.  Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"You  know,  Betty,  there's  two  things  I  want.  I  want  to 
learn  to  read  and  write,  because  I  want  to  write  to  Margie. 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  101 

And  I  want  to  work  and  earn  money,  because  when  I'm  grown 
up,  I  want  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  that's  what  I  want  more 
than  all  the  rest."  Betty  stared. 

"You  can't  be  a  gentleman,  Jerry.  Look  at  your  clothes. 
And  you  haven't  got  a  beautiful  house,  and  a  garden,  and 
servants,  and — and — "  Jerry  interrupted  her — 

"My  daddy  didn't  have  those  things,  but  my  daddy  was 
a  gentleman."  Betty  was  silent  for  a  time.  Presently  she 
broke  out  again. 

"The  little  count's  a  gentleman;  but  you  can't  be  like  him, 
Jerry,  and  he  doesn't  do  any  work."  Jerry  shook  his 
head. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Betty.  I'm  going  to  be  a  gentleman,  and 
a  gentleman's  got  to  have  some  money,  so  I  must  work.  Tom 
Datchett's  got  hired  to  Farmer  Greatley,  and  he's  not  turned 
seven  yet,  and  I  was  eight  ever  so  long  ago." 

Betty  looked  approvingly  at  the  square  shoulders  and  solid 
little  frame  beside  her — not  so  very  tall,  perhaps,  but  giving 
promise,  to  an  older  observer,  of  future  breadth  and  height. 

"Aunt  Martha  says  you're  well-grown,  Jerry — that  means 
big  for  your  age,  'cos  I  asked  Uncle  Matt." 

"An*  that's  why  I  want  to  go  to  service.  Betty — "  his  tone 
was  eager.  "Do  you  think  Mr.  Chubbe  wants  a  boy  ?  Do  you 
think  he'd  take  me?"  Betty  put  her  head  on  one  side  and 
looked  sagacious. 

"I  don't  know,  Jerry."  Then,  fired  to  interest,  "Let's  go 
an'  ask  him." 

Mr.  Chubbe  was  found  wandering  round  the  yard,  where, 
only  a  few  months  ago,  stood  stack  after  stack,  like  yellow 
beehives.  The  heavy  Sunday  dinner  took  some  time  to  work 
off;  but  now  the  farmer  had  had  his  forty  winks  and  was 
ready  for  anything. 

.  "Hello,  children,"  he  cried,  as  the  two  came  through  the 
propped-back  gate.  Betty  ran  to  him  and  slipped  her  hand 
into  his,  while  Jerry  stood  at  his  side. 

"Uncle  Matt,"  she  cried,  "Jerry  wants  to  get  some  work, 


102  When  Pan  Pipes 

because  he  wants  to  get  some  money  and  be  a  gentleman,  and 
do  you  think  you  want  a  boy?" 

"Hey,  hey,"  cried  the  farmer,  vastly  amused,  "wants  some 
work,  an'  wants  to  be  a  gentleman.  Ye  can't  do  both,  my  lad. 
Gentlemen  don't  work." 

"Jerry  says  they  do,  Uncle  Matt;  Jerry's  daddy  was  a 
gentleman,  and  he  worked."  The  farmer  looked  puzzled  and 
serious. 

"Ay,  he  was  a  gentleman  all  right ;  but  what  he  did  wasn't, 
so  to  speak,  work.  Seemed  more  like  play." 

"Mr.  Chubbe,"  Jerry's  quiet  little  voice  broke  in,  "do  you 
think  you'll  be  wanting  a  boy  soon — 'cos  if  you  do,  will  you 
take  me?  I'd  be  very  good,  and  do  what  you  tell  me."  The 
farmer's  face  grew  very  soft  as  he  looked  down  into  the 
serious  brown  eyes. 

"I  ain't  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  good,  laddie,"  he  said,  "but 
as  to  a  boy — well,  just  now,  there  isn't  much  work  for  such 
a  little  Jun." 

"But  if  you  should  want  one,  Mr.  Chubbe — if  you 
should?" 

"Well,  well,  we'll  think  it  over,"  replied  the  farmer  good- 
naturedly.  "Betty,  lass,  go  wipe  your  shoes.  You've  been  in 
the  drift-yard,  an'  your  aunt  will  scold  if  she  sees  such  dirty 
feet."  Betty  looked  down  ruefully  at  the  spattered  white 
socks,  and  slippers  thick  with  spring  mud. 

"I'll  get  it  off,  Betty,  with  a  piece  of  wood,"  said  Jerry, 
and  the  two  children  went  off,  the  farmer  gazing  after  them 
with  a  gentle  look. 

"Wants  to  do  some  work.  Ay,  it's  the  spring  time.  Poor 
little  laddie."  Jerry's  request  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  farmer's 
mind.  Unconsciously  he  turned  it  over  and  over,  so  that  when 
a  suggestion  came  from  Mrs.  Chubbe  it  found  him  partly  pre- 
pared. There  was  little  time  for  private  talk  between  the  two. 
Work  separated  them  during  the  day ;  at  meal  times  the  pres- 
ence of  men  and  maids  barred  conversation;  and  in  the  eve- 
ning, Mr.  Chubbe  was  busy  in  the  snug  parlour,  ministering 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  103 

to  the  wants  of  customers.  Only  in  the  quiet  of  their  own 
room  could  personal  matters  be  discussed. 

Betty  had  been  to  school  three  days.  Had  mastered  the 
difference  between  B  and  D,  had  discovered  that  Q  had  a 
tail,  and  O  had  none,  and  learned  that  there  was  a  strange 
letter  called  "crinkle  crankle  S."  Also,  she  had  a  ruled  slate, 
on  which  she  made  scratchy  noises  and  evolved  queer  figures, 
called  pothooks  and  hangers.  Her  aunt  smiled  approval;  the 
scheme  worked,  for  the  moment  at  least.  But  after  finishing 
her  task  of  sewing  in  the  afternoon,  Betty  was  left  to  her 
own  devices.  The  confinement  of  the  morning,  and  the  hour 
of  sitting  on  a  high  stool,  pushing  a  sticky  needle  through  a 
very  grubby  duster,  kept  every  nerve  at  high  tension,  the  con- 
sequence being,  that  in  three  afternoons  she  contrived  to  get 
through  as  much  mischief  as  had  served  for  a  week  hitherto. 
Mrs.  Chubbe  was  nearly  beside  herself. 

"Something'll  have  to  be  done,"  she  said  to  her  husband. 
"She  fell  in  the  brook  this  afternoon,  an'  got  wet  through 
to  her  skin.  Perhaps  she  couldn't  help  it,  anyway  I  changed 
her  clothes,  every  stitch,  an'  within  an  hour,  if  she  didn't 
tip  the  tub  of  pigwash  over  her — hair  an'  all — an'  a  pretty 
picter  she  looked.  Drip — drip — drip — all  the  way  to  the  house, 
an'  over  the  back'us  bricks,  just  new  scrubbed,  an'  would  have 
come  into  the  kitchen,  only  Sally  caught  her.  She  beats  all  I 
ever  did  see  for  naughtiness."  The  farmer,  slowly  divesting 
himself  of  his  clothes,  left  off  to  scratch  his  head — this  being 
an  inducement  to  thought. 

"She's  young,  wife." 

"Young,"  echoed  Mrs.  Chubbe,  "yes,  she's  young.  So's  the 
boy;  but  when  do  you  find  him  in  mischief?  I  wish  to  good- 
ness that  silly  woman  had  left  him  here ;  I'd  have  trusted  Betty 
with  him." 

"Yes,  he's  a  good  lad."  The  farmer  slowly  ruminated ;  then 
stooped,  and,  continuing  operations,  began  to  take  off  his  heavy 
boots.  "He's  taken  it  into  his  little  head  that  it's  time  he  went 
to  work,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause. 


104  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Work!"  Mrs.  Chubbe  stopped  in  the  midst  of  brushing 
her  hair.  "Work!  what  sort  of  work?" 

"Well,  he  thought  I  might  be  wantin'  a  boy,  an*  asked  if 
I'd  take  him  on."  The  farmer  smiled  broadly  at  the  recollec- 
tion. "An',  I'm  thinkin'  that  p'raps  I'll  be  wantin'  a  boy." 

"But  you  can't  take  that  child,  master."  Mrs.  Chubbe 
turned  and  stared  in  blank  amazement. 

"Why -not?" 

"Why  not  ?    Well,  he's  such  a  child." 

"Tom  Datchett's  a  year  younger." 

"Tom  Datchett!"  echoed  his  wife.  "Tom  Datchett!"  she 
repeated  contemptuously,  "who's  Tom  Datchett?  But  this 
child's  father  was  a  gentleman,  and  you  mark  my  words,  if 
he's  got  any  friends,  they're  gentlefolk." 

"Maybe — maybe."  The  farmer  lifted  himself,  with  a  very 
red  face,  kicked  off  his  boots,  and  proceeded  to  the  next  opera- 
tion. "But  even  gentlefolk  can't  live  on  nothin'.  The  child's 
right,  wife,  an'  if  he  wants  it,  to  work  he  shall  go.  I'll  give 
him  fourpence  a  week  to  scare  the  crows — they're  thick  as 
blackberries  this  spring — an'  we'll  see  what  he  does  with  it." 

Mrs.  Chubbe  made  no  answer ;  she  was  turning  over  an  idea. 
Before  going  to  sleep  she  got  it  off  her  mind. 

"Matthew."  The  farmer  woke  up  at  the  unusual  appella- 
tion; it  meant  things  were  serious.  "I've  been  thinking. 
There's  those  geese,  runnin'  wild,  an'  we'll  be  losin'  some — to 
say  nothin'  of  the  turkeys,  which  are  the  plague  of  my  life. 
There's  Betty  at  loose  ends  all  the  afternoon.  She  can  do 
her  seam  after  tea.  How'd  it  be  if  she  took  care  of  'em, 
along  o'  the  boy.  'T would  be  a  load  off  my  mind,  for  he'd 
keep  her  out  of  mischief,  an'  she'll  do  it  if  I  tell  her.  I'll  give 
her  a  penny  a  week.  'Twill  be  a  cheap  penn'orth,"  she  added 
with  a  grim  smile.  The  farmer,  broad  awake  now,  considered 
for  a  bit. 

"I  think  you've  hit  it,  wife,"  he  said  slowly.  "The  chil- 
dren are  best  together." 

"An*  the  sooner  it's  settled,  the  better,"  responded  Mrs. 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  105 

Chubbe,  adding  sleepily,  as  she  turned  over,  "I'll  go  down  an' 
see  widow  Hagges  to-morrow." 

So,  to  Jerry's  unspeakable  delight,  and  Betty's  not  so  un- 
speakable, the  matter  was  broached  and  clinched,  and  a  start 
was  to  be  made  on  the  following  Monday.  Not  even  Mrs. 
Chubbe's  practical  mind  could  divest  itself  enough  from  su- 
perstition to  engage  a  new  hand  on  Friday,  and  Saturday  was 
no  day  at  all.  The  widow  demurred  slightly — mostly  at  the 
thought  of  money  earned  and  kept  by  Jerry. 

"A  pound  a  month's  none  too  much  for  a  growing  lad, 
m'am,"  she  said,  "an'  fourpence's  a  lot  o'  money  for  a  child 
to  have  of  his  own." 

Mrs.  Chubbe  inwardly  agreed.  It  was  a  large  sum,  and 
even  Jerry  was  not  entirely  free  from  childish  weaknesses. 
Betty's  penny,  she  knew,  would  never  have  time  to  burn  a 
hole  in  her  pocket.  In  the  end,  a  compromise  settled  things; 
the  fourpence  was  to  be  equally  divided. 

"He  eats  a  sight  o'  sugar,"  said  the  widow.  "It'll  go  a  little 
way  towards  paying  for  it." 

From  the  Monday  life  changed  to  Jerry.  He  was  a  wage- 
earning  member  of  society,  and  very  important  was  he,  as  he 
sat  knocking  his  clappers  together  whenever  a  black  speck 
appeared  on  the  horizon.  It  would  have  been  lonely  to  an 
ordinary  child,  but  to  Jerry,  used  to  being  by  himself,  it  was 
simply  natural,  and,  like  all  outdoor  workers,  he  grew  uncon- 
sciously day  by  day  more  in  touch  with  Nature,  knowing, 
without  knowing,  her  secrets,  which  are  no  secrets  at  all,  and 
finding  every  hour  something  new,  something  changing. 

Besides  this,  there  was  the  thought  of  how  he  should  spend 
his  fortune.  He  wanted  to  buy  things  for  everyone.  There 
was  Mrs.  Chubbe — he  knew  she  wanted  a  new  churn.  The 
farmer,  too,  had  been  heard  to  express  a  desire  for  a  scarlet 
waistcoat.  Sally  wanted  a  new  ribbon,  and  Nanny's  one  wish 
in  the  world  was  to  possess  a  hymn  book.  Not  that  she  could 
read  it,  but  to  carry  it  backwards  and  forwards  on  Sunday 
seemed  to  her  the  acme  of  bliss.  The  widow?  Jerry  knitted 


106  When  Pan  Pipes 

his  small  brows.  She  didn't  seem  to  want  much;  her  imagi- 
nation was  limited  to  a  new  front  "when  pedlar  comes."  But 
Betty?  Jerry's  face  cleared.  Betty  wanted  everything. 
Never  a  day,  hardly  an  hour,  but  she  expressed  a  longing,  now 
for  lollipops,  now  for  new  shoes,  ribbons,  stuff  like  the  ladies 
used  to  make  you  smell  nice,  smart  clothes,  a  muff  and  tippet — 
there  was  no  end  to  Betty's  wants.  Jerry  shook  his  head ;  two- 
pence a  week  wouldn't  get  all  Betty  wanted,  he  was  sure. 
How  far  it  would  go  was  another  question.  Altogether  time 
went  quite  quickly.  Moreover,  there  was  always  the  lump  of 
modelling  clay. 

Betty's  promise  resolved  itself  into  nothing.  Jerry  begged 
her  to  teach  him  what  she  learned,  but  alas!  the  alphabet, 
which  he  knew,  took  many  weeks  to  master,  and  in  the  mean- 
time, an  incident  occurred.  For  some  time  the  geese  and  tur- 
keys were  not  allowed  to  wander  beyond  the  common,  and 
Betty  was  under  constant  supervision,  as  the  inn  fronted  on 
to  the  green,  and  from  any  window  Mrs.  Chubbe  could  sud- 
denly overlook,  if  necessity  arose.  But  necessity  did  not  arise. 
The  child's  sense  of  honour  and  responsibility  was  waking, 
and  for  some  weeks  her  aunt  declared  that  she  was  "as  good 
as  gold,"  and  took  much  credit  to  herself.  As  summer  neared 
and  small  creatures  grew  larger,  a  longer  tether  was  needed, 
and  many  an  afternoon  Jerry  found  himself  called  from  his 
crow-scaring  to  help  Betty  "tend  the  geese."  Then,  indeed, 
came  delightful  hours.  The  two  children,  surrounded  by  the 
snow-white  .geese  and  mottled  turkeys,  wandered  through 
lanes — hay  fields  being  forbidden  at  this  time — where  wild 
roses  and  honeysuckle  grew  thick  on  high,  high  hedges,  and 
here  and  there  an  arching  tree  made  cool  shelter.  Some- 
times they  would  go  to  the  woods,  of  which  Jerry  knew  every 
inch,  but  the  flock  was  not  so  easily  managed  there,  and  more 
often  they  would  seek  a  certain  spot  by  a  pond,  where  willows 
drooped,  and  sloping  banks  made  a  pleasant  resting  place. 
From  there  they  could  watch  their  little  charges  without  much 
difficulty. 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  107 

It  was  indeed  a  lovely  place.  Grasses  grew  knee-deep  about 
them ;  bold  buttercups  turned  their  yellow  faces  towards  them, 
as  though  questioning  their  right  to  be  there.  Blue  forget- 
me-nots  nestled  shyly  in  the  damper  parts;  wild  garlic  and 
meadowsweet  nodded  a  welcome;  shepherd's  delight  told  the 
state  of  the  weather;  milkwort  cured  the  warts  on  Jerry's 
hands ;  white  puffballs  told  the  time — certainly  not  always  cor- 
rectly, but  then,  there  was  always  Church  Clock  to  put  mat- 
ters right.  Nettles,  it  is  true,  are  spiteful  things,  and  apt  to 
sting  little  legs  unless  care  is  taken,  but  within  a  hand's  reach 
is  always  a  cool  healing  dockleaf. 

There  were  wonderful  things  around  them — food,  which 
can  always  be  found  by  those  who  know  the  way;  mallows* 
with  a  little  imagination,  make  excellent  cheeses ;  sorrel,  of 
course,  is  salad;  hawthorn  shoots  are  young  and  succulent, 
and  a  little  later  on,  the  heart  of  a  thistle,  the  thick  outer  skin 
of  the  rose-hips,  and  the  scarlet  haws,  all  make  good  eating 
to  a  child. 

But  the  wild  grasses,  perhaps,  had  the  most  fascination. 
Quivering,  quaking  grass,  which  Betty,  with  an  eye  for  beauty, 
plucked  and  arranged  in  a  vase,  only  to  be  thrown  away  by 
Mrs.  Chubbe.  "Nasty  stuff — cluttering  up  the  place."  The 
creeping  grass,  which,  put  in  a  sleeve,  will  run  up  and  cause 
a  certain  amount  of  excitement  when  undressing  as  to  dis- 
tance; soft  grasses,  which  Jerry  would  peel,  and  twist  in 
Betty's  unruly  curls.  But  the  wheat  grass  gave  lasting  de- 
light, for  with  it  fortunes  are  told,  and  to  a  child  more  than 
to  anyone  else  the  mystery  of  the  future  is  purest  romance. 
Betty  worked  the  oracle,  which,  strangely  enough,  generally 
came  the  same,  giving  a  wonderful  touch  of  veracity. 

"I'll  tell  fortunes,"  said  she,  when  conversation  flagged. 
Grasses  grew  thick,  it  was  only  a  matter  of  choice.  Then 
lazily  leaning  back,  "I'll  do  myself  first,  Jerry,  because  you 
like  to  hear  mine,  don't  you,  and  I  don't  care  quite  so  much 
for  yours.  I'll  see  who  I'm  going  to  marry,  first." 

Then,  with  two  small  thumbs,  she  ran  up  the  kernels  pro- 


108  When  Pan  Pipes 

jecting  at  each  side.  "Tinker,  tailor,  soldier,  sailor,  rich  man, 
poor  man,  beggarman,  thief.  Tinker,  tailor,  soldier,  sailor, 
rich  man — "  here,  with  very  few  exceptions,  it  ended,  much 
to  Betty's  delight. 

"  'Cos  I  do  want  to  be  rich,  Jerry,  an'  have  everything  nice. 
Now  we'll  try  what  sort  of  a  house." 

Again  the  little  thumbs  moved  up,  again  the  scarlet  lips 
whispered,  "Little  house,  big  house,  pigsty,  barn.  Little  house, 
big  house — "  The  tip  of  the  grass  was  reached,  and  Betty's 
soul  rejoiced  again.  "Silks,  satins,  cottons,  rags.  Silks, 
satins — .  That's  what  I  shall  wear  when  I'm  married,"  cried 
Betty  gleefully.  "Ladies  always  wear  satin  when  they're  mar- 
ried; Aunt  Martha  says  so — an'  I  shall  be  a  lady  then.  I'll 
just  try  one  more,  an'  then  I'll  tell  yours,  Jerry.  Coach,  car- 
riage, wheelbarrow,  cart.  Coach — "  Betty's  eyes  sparkled. 
"That  means  I'm  going  to  get  both.  It  was  'carriage'  yester- 
day. Now  yours,  Jerry." 

Jerry  bent  close.  His  fortune  varied  between  "rich  man" 
and  "thief,"  which  perplexed  him  sorely. 

"I  couldn't  be  a  thief,  Betty,  could  I  ?" 

"No,  of  course  you  couldn't.  Rich  people  aren't  thieves, 
and  you're  going  to  be  a  rich  man." 

Betty  so  settled  the  matter  and  threw  away  the  grass. 

"You  don't  want  to  know  about  your  clothes,  'cos  you're 
a  boy,  and  if  you're  rich,  of  course,  you'll  live  in  a  big  house, 
and  have  a  carriage.  Let's  play  at  something  else.  Tell  me 
a  tale,  Jerry." 

With  the  piece  of  clay,  many  memories  had  returned;  old 
fairy  tales  came  back,  piecemeal  at  first,  then  wholly,  and 
Betty  reaped  the  benefit.  To-day,  it  was  the  story  of  the 
Goose-Girl,  to  which  she  listened  delightedly,  fitting  herself 
with  the  title  role. 

"I  know,"  she  cried,  jumping  up  when  it  was  ended,  "we'll 
play  it.  You're  not  really  a  swineherd,  but  you  can  pretend 
the  turkeys  are  pigs,  and  I'm  really  a  Goose-Girl.  P'raps  I'm 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  109 

really  a  princess,  and  you're  a  prince,  Jerry.  Oh,  wouldn't 
it  be  beautiful?" 

And  so  the  summer  days,  the  happy  days  of  childhood, 
passed.  It  was  one  hot  morning  in  August.  Jerry,  called 
from  his  crows,  was  working  his  clay  into  the  form  of  a 
goose.  Betty,  lolling  on  the  grass,  watched  idly.  The  sounds 
of  wheels  made  them  look  up,  and  Betty  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"It's  Lady  Kezzy,"  she  whispered.  "Get  up,  Jerry."  Down 
the  road  came  a  low  pony  chaise,  driven  by  my  lady.  She 
cast  a  glance  at  the  geese  and  turkeys  pecking  by  the  wayside, 
and  fluttering  almost  under  the  pony's  hoofs,  then  raised  her 
eyes  and  caught  sight  of  the  children. 

"Is  that  you,  Betty  Chubbe?  Come  here;  I  want  to  speak 
to  you."  Betty  ran  quickly  forward,  curtseying  as  she  came ; 
she  was  rather  a  favourite  with  Lady  Kezzy,  and  knew  it. 

"How  is  your  aunt?" 

"She's  quite  well,  thank  you,  please  my  lady." 

"Well,  will  you  give  her  this  message?  Tell  her  that  Lady 
Mary  is  coming  on  a  visit,  and  that  we  shall  probably  come 
in  and  see  her  one  day  soon.  Can  you  remember,  child?" 

"Oh,  yes,  my  lady." 

"That's  a  good  girl.  And  now,  how  are  the  lessons?  I 
hear  you  are  going  to  school."  Betty's  head  drooped;  she 
quilted  the  edge  of  her  pinny  and  remained  silent.  Lady 
Kezzy  smiled. 

"Not  very  well,  I'm  afraid.  Ah,  Betty,  your  aunt  should 
have  let  you  come  to  me."  The  child  looked  up  hastily. 

"Please,  my  lady,  Aunt  Martha  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me 
in  the  morning — I'm  naughty.  You  see,  in  the  evening 
wouldn't  have  been  any  good." 

"I  see."  The  smile  deepened  on  the  comely  face — the  blue 
eyes  twinkled.  "Well,  Betty,  I'm  glad  you're  truthful;  that's 
better  than  learning."  She  gathered  up  her  reins,  then,  as 
a  goose  waddled  solemnly  under  the  pony's  nose,  dropped 
them,  and  caught  sight  of  Jerry. 


110  When  Pan  Pipes 

"What  little  boy  is  that,  Betty  ?" 

"It's  Jerry,  my  lady." 

"Jerry !"  echoed  my  lady.  "Oh !"  as  remembrance  came  to 
her  assistance,  "the  artist's  child,  of  course." 

She  moved  a  beckoning  finger.  Jerry  came  forward  and 
lifted  his  cap.  Lady  Kezzy  looked  surprised. 

"You're  the  little  boy  who  lives  with  Widow  Hagges,  I 


suppose 


"Yes,  my  lady,"  said  Jerry,  cap  in  hand. 

"And  you  and  Betty  are  great  friends,  no  doubt."  The  two 
little  faces  smiled  at  each  other. 

"Yes,  I  see  you  are.    What's  your  other  name,  Jerry?" 

For  a  moment  Jerry  stared  astonished — then  bewildered. 
Had  he  got  another  name?  Somewhere,  deep  down,  some- 
thing roused  at  the  suggestion.  Surely,  long  ago,  there  was 
something  beside  plain  Jerry ;  but  he  stood  perplexed,  troubled, 
and  the  lady  watched  him. 

"Have  you  forgotten?"  she  asked  gently.  "Well,  never 
mind.  What  is  that  you  have  in  your  hand?"  Jerry  looked 
down ;  it  was  the  modelling  clay. 

"May  I  see?"  She  put  out  her  hand,  and  took  the  nearly 
finished  goose  from  him,  criticising  it  carefully. 

"Who  taught  you,  my  dear?" 

"My  daddy."  At  the  mention  of  the  name  the  tears  rose. 
Lady  Kezzy  saw  the  flush,  the  hasty  brushing  away  of  a  tear, 
but  said  nothing.  She  was  handling  the  piece  of  clay  with  a 
critical  eye.  Travel  and  social  intercourse  had  given  her  a 
certain  knowledge,  and  she  knew  that,  rough  as  the  thing  was, 
there  was  a  certain  something  which  marked  at  least  the  artist. 
She  waited  till  the  child  had  regained  his  composure,  then 
handed  it  back. 

"It's  very  nice,  my  dear.  Do  you  like  doing  it?"  Jerry 
looked  thoughtful.  The  question  had  never  occurred  to  him; 
it  was  a  natural  thing  to  handle  the  clay.  On  the  whole,  he 
supposed  he  did,  and  said  so. 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  111 

"And  do  you  go  to  school  with  Betty?"  she  asked  next. 
Betty  put  in  an  oar. 

"No,  my  lady.  Jerry  scares  crows  in  the  morning,  but  he 
wants  to  go  to  school,  and  he  knows  his  alphabet." 

"And  I  used  to  be  able  to  spell  a  little,"  said  Jerry  sadly. 
"But  I  can't  remember."  Lady  Kezzy  smiled;  she  was  more 
than  usually  interested. 

"Suppose  you  say  your  alphabet  to  me,  and  see  how  much 
you  know."  Jerry  stood  straight,  put  his  hands  behind  him — 
these  being  among  the  few  instructions  given  by  Betty — and 
began.  At  H  things  hung  fire;  Lady  Kezzy  gave  assistance, 
and  the  quiet  little  voice  went  on  smoothly  to  the  difficult 
country  of  P's  and  R's,  where  more  help  was  needed.  After 
that  all  was  well,  and  Jerry  finished  triumphantly,  "W  X  Y  Z 
and  Amperzand." 

Lady  Kezzy  smiled  again.  She  recognised  Betty's  hand  at 
the  end.  The  child's  father,  she  shrewdly  surmised,  would 
have  been  content  with  twenty-six  letters. 

"Very  nicely  said,  my  dear.  Now,  how  would  you  like  to 
come  to  my  evening  school?"  Jerry's  eyes  glistened — his 
breath  came  quickly.  "Oh — "  It  was  all,  but  the  listener  un- 
derstood. 

"Then  suppose  I  go  straight  on  to  the  cottage  and  settle  it 
with  Mrs.  Hagges."  Jerry  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  my  lady."  She  nodded  to  the  chil- 
dren as  they  stood,  oblivious  of  geese  and  turkeys,  Betty  even 
forgetting  to  curtsey,  till  the  little  pony  chaise,  with  its  rib- 
bons and  tinkling  bells,  had  vanished.  Betty  gave  a  delighted 
caper  and  skipped  back  to  the  seat. 

"Jerry,  isn't  it  be-u-tiful?  Won't  you  be  glad?"  Jerry 
nodded. 

"My  lady  must  be  very  kind,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  'cos 
I'm  only  a  little  boy,  and  I  can't  learn  much ;  but  I'll  try,  oh, 
I  will  try,"  he  added  earnestly. 

"An'  you'll  be  able  to  help  me,  won't  you,  Jerry?"  pleaded 


112  When  Pan  Pipes 

lazy  Betty.  Then,  suddenly  changing  the  subject,  "Oh,  Jerry, 
isn't  it  an  exciting  morning?  I  do  want  to  see  Lady  Mary. 
You  see,  she's  never  been  here  since  she  was  a  baby." 

"Is  she  old,  like  the  other  ladies  ?"  asked  Jerry. 

"N-no — "  Betty  hesitated.  "I  think  she  must  be  only 
grown  up." 

"Perhaps  she's  a  little  girl,"  said  Jerry,  but  Betty  scorn- 
fully repudiated  the  suggestion. 

"How  could  she  be  a  little  girl?  She's  Lady  Mary,  little 
girls  aren't  ladies,"  and  Jerry  retired  defeated,  then  started 
up,  suddenly  remembering. 

"Oh!  Betty — the  geese."  The  two  children  scrambled  up, 
separating  in  search  of  the  truants,  and,  amidst  much  flutter- 
ing and  noise,  collected  the  flock.  Church  Clock  struck  ten, 
and  Betty  plucked  a  puffball  to  check  the  time.  As  she  stood 
blowing  and  counting,  again  the  sound  of  hoofs  came  near. 
Always  curious,  she  flung  away  the  flower,  glanced  along  the 
road,  and  flew  back  to  Jerry. 

"It's  the  little  count,"  she  whispered  gleefully.  "Oh,  Jerry, 
you  couldn't  be  like  him." 

Jerry  looked  up.  A  small  Shetland  pony,  bearing  the  little 
boy  he  had  seen  in  church,  was  coming  merrily  along,  its 
flowing  tail  and  mane  floating  out  on  the  breeze,  its  mis- 
chievous head  wagging  and  nodding  with  all  sorts  of  ponyish 
thoughts.  Behind,  on  a  sedate  horse,  came  a  groom.  The 
child  wore  a  bored  expression  and  ambled  listlessly  along,  set- 
ting the  pace. 

Betty,  never  behind  when  great  folk  were  about,  stood 
well  into  the  roadway,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  child 
on  his  pony  caught  sight  of  her;  also  of  Jerry  under  the 
trees.  A  look  of  interest  lighted  up  his  face,  and  he  beckoned. 
Betty,  nothing  loath,  came  forward,  but  the  little  count  shook 
his  head  fretfully,  and  waved  her  away. 

"You're  Betty  Chubbe,  I  know  you,  but  who's  the  little  boy 
under  the  trees  ?" 

"It's  Jerry,"  answered  Betty. 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  113 

"Jerry,"  repeated  the  other.  "Tell  him  I  want  him."  Betty 
turned  and  motioned  with  her  hand.  Count  Paul  leaned  for- 
ward impatiently,  interest  lighting  up  the  little  dark,  sallow 
face. 

"She  says  you're  Jerry,"  he  said,  pointing  his  whip  at  Betty. 
"Tell  me  what  you  are  doing,  Jerry." 

"We're  minding  Farmer  Chubbe's  geese." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Again  the  note  of  hasty  fretfulness.  "But 
what  do  you  do  ?  Do  you  play  ?" 

"Y-yes,  sometimes.     We  talk,  and  tell  tales,  and  pretend." 

"Pretend !"  The  fretfulness  was  gone ;  only  eager  curiosity 
prevailed.  "How? — tell  me?"  Jerry  looked  hopeless;  his 
tongue  was  not  a  ready  one.  But  Betty  stepped  forward. 

"We  pretend  he's  a  swineherd,  the  turkeys  are  the  pigs, 
an'  I'm  a  Goose-Girl.  I  really  am,  you  know.  But  really 
and  truly,  he's  a  prince  an'  I'm  a  princess;  and  his  name's 
Conrad — and — " 

"Oh,"  interrupted  the  Count,  his  face  aglow  with  interest, 
"I'll  come  and  play,  too."  He  began  to  scramble  off  his 
pony.  Jerry  and  Betty  eyed  him  askance,  then  looked  at  each 
other  in  dismay.  Perhaps  he  saw  the  look,  for  he  stopped. 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  ought  to  have  asked  if  you'd  have  me. 
Will  you?  Please  say  you  will,"  he  added  pleadingly. 

"Let's  have  him,  Jerry,"  urged  Betty,  and  Jerry,  somewhat 
reluctantly,  agreed. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  the  Count,  finishing  his  de- 
scent, and  turning  to  the  groom,  who  had  waited  silently  for 
orders.  "Take  my  pony,  Thompson,  and  tell  my  father  I 
am  stopping  to  play  with  Jerry  and  Betty  Chubbe."  The 
groom  stepped  forward,  a  perplexed  look  on  his  face. 

"Sir,  you  can't,  you  mustn't  play  with  these  children.  His 
Excellency  would  not  like  it."  The  child  held  his  head  up,  a 
haughty  look  in  his  face.  Jerry  and  Betty  waited  breathlessly. 

"How  dare  you  disobey  me.  Take  my  pony — at  once,"  with 
an  angry  stamp,  "and  give  my  father  my  message." 

"Very  good,  sir."    The  man  touched  his  hat,  and  with  an 


114  When  Pan  Pipes 

almost  imperceptible  shrug,  took  the  pony's  reins,  and  mount- 
ing his  own  horse,  rode  off.  The  three  children  drew  breath 
again. 

"Now  we  can  play,"  cried  Betty. 

"Only  we  must  get  the  geese  together  again,"  said  Jerry. 

The  count  assisted.  At  first  the  others  demurred.  In- 
stinctively they  knew  that  counts  do  not  tend  geese,  except 
in  disguise,  nor  play  with  swineherds.  They  may  sit  on  a 
bank  with  a  goose-girl,  and  talk  to  her,  even  make  love,  but 
with  a  goose-girl,  too,  there  is  a  hard  and  fast  line  between 
that  and  friendship. 

The  flock  being  collected  they  went  back  to  their  seat,  and 
room  was  made  for  the  third  child.  At  first,  a  shy  stiffness 
prevented  progress,  but  it  wore  off  quickly,  and  long  before 
Church  Clock  struck  eleven  the  children  were  laughing,  chat- 
ting, and  making  believe  as  though  there  were  no  such  thing 
as  inequalities  in  position  nor  difference  between  fine  Nankeen 
pants  and  a  smock  frock;  for  with  work  Jerry  had  taken  the 
symbol  of  it — the  clothes  which  mark  the  worker. 

The  game  of  pretence  went  merrily  enough.  Betty  made 
a  wreath  of  flowers  and  at  once  became  a  princess.  Paul 
was  a  great  acquisition;  he  knew  the  ways  and  manners  of 
princesses,  and — the  children  listened  with  bated  breath — he 
had  once  seen  a  real  one. 

"But  she  wasn't  like  a  princess  at  all,"  he  told  them.  "She 
was  fat  and  old,  and  she  wore  a  big  bonnet,  instead  of  a  crown, 
and  she  looked  so  cross  and  ugly." 

"Perhaps  she  was  disguised,"  said  Betty. 

"Or  perhaps  a  witch  had  enchanted  her,"  suggested  Jerry. 
Paul  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know.  Anyhow,  she  wasn't 
a  bit  like  a  princess.  Betty  is,"  he  added.  "I  think  when  she 
grows  up,  she'll  be  one  exactly." 

"Do  you?"  cried  Betty,  clapping  her  hands,  and  Paul  as- 
sented gravely.  Indeed,  she  looked  it.  Dark  eyes  glittering 
like  stars,  lips  gleaming  scarlet  as  the  geranium  in  the  widow's 
window,  little  pearly  white  teeth  flashing,  and  the  sunlight 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  115 

through  the  trees  making  coppery  curls  shine  like  red  gold. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  I  do  think  it's  been  the  most  exciting  morning." 
Jerry  nodded ;  he,  too,  had  been  thinking. 

"It's  just  like  a  real  fairy  tale,"  he  said  with  a  sigh  of 
content.  "There's  you,  Betty — you're  the  goose-girl  who's 
really  a  princess — and  there's  me,  and  I'm  really  a  prince. 
An'  Lady  Kezzy's  the  fairy  godmother,  who's  given  us  all 
we  want,  and  I  think — "  he  looked  shyly  at  the  other  boy, 
"you're  the  knight  who  comes  riding  down  the  road  and 
rescues  the  princess."  Again  Betty  clapped  her  hands  with 
delight. 

"We'll  pretend  the  willow  tree's  an  ogre,  and  that  little 
hill's  his  castle,  and  I'm  his  prisoner.  Oh !  it's  the  be-u-ti-full- 
est  play." 

And  so  on.  Till  Church  Clock  struck  the  third  quarter, 
when  geese  must  be  gathered  together,  and  a  march  made 
for  home  and  dinner  and  all  the  practical,  uninteresting  things 
which  mark  the  grown-up  from  the  child.  With  many  prom- 
ises to  meet  on  the  morrow,  the  children  separated.  Count 
Paul  watched  the  two  go,  then  strolled  leisurely  back  with  a 
feeling  of  wonderment  at  the  unexpected  delights  of  the  morn- 
ing. There  was  no  fear  in  his  heart.  Between  Count  de  Cosse 
and  his  son  was  perfect  confidence,  and  long  before  luncheon 
was  over  Paul  had  rendered  account  of  his  doings.  His  fa- 
ther heard,  but  said  nothing,  even  when  plans  were  made  for 
the  next  day's  meeting.  But  in  the  afternoon  he  rode  across 
the  fields  to  the  Dower  House,  and  consulted  ostensibly  the 
ladies — in  reality,  Lady  Kezzy. 

Lady  Karen  listened  with  cautious  interest — interest  half 
centred  on  the  elaborate  piece  of  woolwork  stretched  on  a 
frame  before  her;. Lady  Kezzy  eagerly,  glancing  often  at  the 
thin  grave  face,  which,  except  for  the  pointed  Vandyke  beard 
and  lines  of  middle  age,  was  a  larger  copy  of  his  son's. 

"You  will  scarce  believe  me,  ladies,"  he  said  as  the  tale 
was  finished,  "when  I  tell  you  that  the  child  looked  better 
than  I  have  seen  him  for  many  a  long  day ;  there  was  even  a 


116  When  Pan  Pipes 

slight  trace  of  colour  in  his  cheeks,  and  he  ate  as  though  he 
enjoyed  his  food."  Lady  Karen  paused  a  moment,  stepping 
backwards  to  inspect  her  work. 

"I  have  always  said  that  Paul  wanted  children  of  his  own 
age.  But  village  children;  my  dear  Count,  you  cannot  allow 
it." 

"And  yet — "  the  Count  spoke  slowly,  "in  my  father's  coun- 
try, the  son  of  the  nobleman  played  with  his  foster  brothers 
and  sisters  and  came  to  no  harm." 

"But  these  are  not  even  foster  brothers  and  sisters,"  replied 
Lady  Karen. 

"But,  sister — "  Lady  Kezzy's  voice  came  pleadingly,  "they 
are  really  very  nice  children.  No  one  could  help  loving  little 
Betty,  and  as  for  the  boy — he's  coming  to  my  class,  you  know, 
and  I'm  quite  sure  he's  a  genius,  and  will  one  day  be  a  great 
sculptor.  His  modelling  is  wonderful."  Lady  Karen  smiled 
grimly. 

"Keziah  is  a  dreamer."  There  was  the  slightest  touch  of 
scorn  in  her  voice.  "Her  geese  are  always  swans,  and  every 
Jack  and  Jill  honest  and  virtuous  till  they're  found  out.  Even 
then,  I'm  not  sure  she's  not  sorry  for  them." 

"Oh,  Karen,"  cried  my  Lady  Kezzy,  "of  course,  I'm  sorry 
for  them.  So  are  you,  only  you  won't  say  so.  And  really 
they're  dear  children.  I'm  sure  they  could  hurt  no  one,  not 
even  Mary."  Lady  Karen  turned  haughtily. 

"If  Paul  allows  his  son  to  play  with  these  children,  it  is 
nothing  to  me.  But  you  understand,  Keziah,  Mary  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  When  she  comes,  you  or  I  will  take  her 
to  visit  the  principal  tenants ;  it  is  right  that  she  should  know 
them,  even,"  she  paused,  and  sighed  almost  imperceptibly, 
"even  if  only  for  a  few  years.  But  when  she  is  with  Paul, 
remember  they  are  not  to  associate  with  any  of  the  village 
children.  Please  understand."  She  swept  from  the  room 
with  a  proud  disdain.  Lady  Kezzy  looked  troubled. 

"Karen  and  Edward  are  so  particular,"  she  said.  "They 
really  almost  frighten  me.  But  you're  not  afraid,  are  you? 


The  Swineherd  and  a  Knight  117 

You'll  let  little  Paul  play  with  them,  they're  such  nice  children?" 

The  Count  came  near. 

"Yes,  Kezzy,"  he  said.  "They  shall  play  together,  since 
you  ask  it — as  we  used  to  play  together  in  the  days  so  long 
ago,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

The  crimson  sunset  was  falling.  It  cast  a  rosy  glow  over 
Lady  Kezzy's  face,  and  a  slight  tinge  was  reflected  on  the 
count's  clear  olive  skin.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence; 
Paul  broke  it.  "I  must  go.  Walk  a  little  with  me,  Kezzy, 
as  you  used  to." 

She  walked  beside  him  down  the  great  avenue,  the  sun- 
set's flush  still  lingering  in  the  sky  and  on  her  face.  Though 
their  words  were  light,  the  remembrance  of  the  past  was  in 
their  minds,  making  them  thoughtful.  At  the  end  of  the 
road  she  stopped  and  said  good-bye.  Maybe  her  hand  lin- 
gered a  little  longer  in  his  than  usual,  maybe  there  was  a 
tender  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  lifted  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 
And  though  the  sunset  was  behind  her,  and  the  brilliance  had 
faded  from  the  sky,  the  crimson  in  her  cheek  was  soft  and 
warm  as  she  retraced  her  steps  and  sought  her  room. 

So  it  came  about  that  the  children  played  together  every 
afternoon.  And  oh!  the  wonderful  tales  they  told,  the  won- 
derful people  they  became,  the  glorious  land  they  stepped 
into,  where  love  and  romance  are  everywhere,  and  youth  is 
ever  youth;  where  maidens  are  fair,  and  men  are  always 
noble,  and  all  is  fairy  in  that  land  behind  the  curtain,  whose 
one  side  is  dull  grey,  but  whose  other  is  crimson  and  shining 
gold.  Even  grown-ups  can  lift  it  and  go  through  and  enter 
the  beautiful  country  of  dreams,  which  perhaps  is  reality; 
where  every  lovely  wish  is  fulfilled,  every  baleful  thing  left 
behind,  and  time  is  only  time  for  those  who  make  it  so.  Alas ! 
that  so  few  know  of  that  country,  the  country  that  little  feet 
can  enter  at  will.  For  every  new-born  child,  as  he  steps 
through  the  curtain  into  the  cold,  bare  world,  brings  with  him 
some  of  the  glory,  and  till  that  fades  away,  he  is  free  of  that 
beautiful  country,  and  is  indeed  a  citizen  of  no  mean  City. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TELLS  OF  HOW  THE  GOOSE-GIRL  MET  THE  FAIRY,  AND  OF  WHAT 
WAS  IN  THE  PEDLAR'S  PACK 

THE  news  went  through  the  village,  and  tenants  scrubbed, 
scoured,  and  red-ochred  in  honour  of  the  Earl's  daugh- 
ter, till  even  the  very  cats  and  dogs  wore  a  festal  appearance, 
and  husbands  were  known  to  ask  of  their  wives,  "if  they 
had  washed  the  chimney  stacks,  and  tied  up  the  pigs'  tails 
with  blue  ribbon." 

There  was  to  be  no  demonstration.  My  lord  was  inflexible 
on  this  point.  Lady  Mary  would  arrive  on  the  Monday,  but 
woe  to  the  villager  whose  curiosity  led  him  to  linger  by  the 
wayside  in  hope  of  catching  sight  of  her.  So  Cloudesley  slept 
its  usual  drowsy  sleep  that  afternoon.  Only  two  children 
tending  geese  saw  the  rolling  dust  which  heralded  her  appear- 
ance. Betty's  sharp  eyes  were  first  to  notice  it. 

"Jerry,  Jerry,"  she  whispered,  "it's  the  great  coach  from  the 
Hall.  Let's  go  and  look." 

Mindful  of  the  edict,  they  crept  behind  a  tree  and  watched 
the  gathering  cloud  roll  nearer  and  nearer.  The  galloping 
horses,  newly  changed  at  Channington,  so  that  my  Lady  Mary 
might  arrive  with  the  eclat  due  to  her  state,  pranced  and 
foamed,  only  kept  in  check  by  my  lord's  outriders,  in  their 
rich  sober  liveries  of  dark  blue  and  silver.  Simon,  my  lord's 
old  coachman,  fat  and  red-faced,  sat  on  the  broad  box  in  full 
dress,  while  behind,  in  the  rumble,  the  children  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  smart  damsel,  and  an  equally  smart  man,  doubt- 
less my  lady's  attendant.  Two  of  the  Hall  footmen  hung 
on  behind,  but  that  was  the  extent  of  the  show,  for  the  blinds 
were  closely  drawn,  and  the  huge  vehicle  passed  out  of  sight, 

118 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        119 

leaving  the  children  deeply  impressed  and  Betty  greatly  con- 
scious of  the  tale  she  would  have  to  tell. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  made  her  calculations.  Calling  back  her  re- 
membrances of  the  Hall,  she  decided  that  Tuesday  would  be 
given  up  to  rest  and  settling  down,  and  on  Wednesday,  the 
more  important  tenants,  among  whom  Mr.  Chubbe  stood  first, 
might  be  honoured  with  a  visit. 

She  arranged  her  household  accordingly,  but  like  many  an- 
other "best  laid"  plan,  it  went  awry.  Betty,  kept  at  home  on 
Tuesday  to  help  clear  up,  was  busy  stripping  red  currants 
preparatory  to  converting  them  into  jam.  Her  aunt,  in  and 
out  of  back'us,  kitchen,  and  dairy,  was  startled  by  the  sight 
of  two  ladies  coming  across  the  meadow.  Dropping  her 
skimmer  into  the  great  pan  of  morning  milk,  she  stared,  in 
her  astonishment  forgetting  to  pick  it  out. 

"Lawk-a-daisy !  if  it  isn't  my  Lady  Kezzy  comin'  this 
mornin'  of  all  times.  An'  me  in  my  apron  an'  pattens,  an' 
Betty — "  the  name  reminded  her.  Hastily  untying  the  big 
apron,  she  rolled  it  up,  slipped  off  the  pattens,  and  hurried  to 
the  pantry. 

"Betty,  child,  go  quick  an'  wash  your  hands  an'  brush  your 
hair.  Here's  my  ladies  comin'  up  the  meadow,  an'  a  pretty 
mess  we're  in.  Was  ever  such  a  thing  heard  of?  An'  Mat- 
thew gone  to  Channington.  Dch — Dch — Dch!" 

Betty  flew.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  returning  to  the  kitchen,  gave 
a  quick  glance  round,  moved  a  basin  from  the  table,  flicked 
a  speck  of  dust  off  the  dresser,  peeped  into  the  dairy  and 
pantry  with  another  "Dch — Dch,"  though  how  they  could 
have  been  tidier  or  cleaner  only  herself  could  have  told ;  then, 
carefully  closed  their  doors  and  stood  waiting  till  the  two  fig- 
ures crossed  the  stile  and  their  steps  were  heard  on  the  flagged 
pathway. 

"An'  the  back'us  door,  too,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chubbe  plain- 
tively. "That's  Lady  Kezzy  all  over;  Lady  Karen  would  ha' 
had  the  big  door  open,  though  it  took  two  on  us  to  do  it — 
it's  that  stuck  from  want  of  using."  The  footsteps  drew 


120  When  Pan  Pipes 

nearer — the  time  had  come  to  cross  casually  the  back'us  and 
greet  the  visitors. 

Lady  Kezzy  stood  at  the  door,  and  beside  her  a  small,  slight 
child,  dressed  simply  in  white.  Mrs.  Chubbe  gave  a  swift 
glance  of  curiosity  and  fell  in  love.  Her  first  thought  was 
of  Betty,  but  it  was  the  contrast  of  the  sun  and  the  moon. 
Betty's  brilliant  colouring,  vivid  piquancy,  and  flashing  beauty, 
were  lacking.  In  their  place  were  eyes  blue  as  the  summer 
cornflower,  softly  deep  as  a  mountain  lake;  long  curls,  not 
copper  gold  like  Betty's,  but  with  the  gold  of  corn  in  August, 
and  a  skin  so  fair  and  thin,  that  the  blue  veins  showed  their 
network  and  the  flowing  of  the  warm  blood  beneath  was  almost 
perceptible. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  held  up  her  hands  in  dismay.  "Oh,  my  ladies, 
to  think  of  you  comin'  here  an'  catchin'  me  in  this  mess.  An' 
you  at  the  back'us  door  when  there's  a  front  one  an'  clean — 
not  but  what  I'm  that  pleased." 

"Why,  Martha,"  said  Lady  Kezzy,  as  she  stepped  over  the 
threshold,  "I'm  sure  you're  always  as  spick  and  span  as  a  new 
pin.  I've  brought  my  niece  to  see  you  and  your  dairy  and 
pigs.  She's  a  little  Londoner,  you  know,  and  has  to  learn 
country  ways." 

Mrs.  Chubbe  curtseyed  again. 

"An'  indeed  it's  an  honour,  my  lady,  to  see  you.  Though 
I  have  seen  your  ladyship  before,  when  you  were  but  a  wee 
thing  in  a  long  lace  gown."  Then  suddenly  mindful  of  for- 
bidden ground,  "but  there — I'm  talkin'  an'  keepin'  you  standin'. 
Come  in,  my  ladies." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  cool  stone  back'us  to  the 
kitchen.  Quickly  dusting  two  chairs,  which  had  never  known 
the  feel  of  dust,  she  placed  them  before  the  visitors. 

"Where  is  Betty,  Martha?"  asked  Lady  Kezzy.  "I  want 
Mary  to  see  her.  Betty's  a  great  favourite  of  mine,  my  dear," 
she  turned  to  her  companion,  "though  I'm  afraid,"  she  laughed 
merrily,  "that  she  gives  her  aunt  something  to  think  of." 

"Aye,  my  lady,  she  does  that.     But  I  must  say  she's  turnin' 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        121 

a  new  leaf  since  she's  gone  to  school,  an'  in  the  afternoon 
she  tends  the  geese,  an'  Jerry  don't  let  her  get  into  mischief." 
My  lady  looked  up. 

"Jerry  ?  Ah,  that's  the  little  boy  who's  coming  to  my  school. 
He  seems  a  nice  child,  Martha." 

"My  lady,  you  couldn't  find  a  nicer,  search  the  world  over. 
He's  a  bit  quiet  for  a  child,  but  that's  no  fault,  an'  he's  lonely, 
poor  laddie,  since  his  father  died." 

She  stopped  at  the  sound  of  light  footsteps  on  the  stair- 
way. A  moment  after  Betty  appeared,  fresh-frocked,  brushed 
and  washed  for  the  company,  an  expression  of  eager  excite- 
ment on  her  face.  Yet  even  as  she  stepped  down  the  last  stair 
into  the  kitchen,  it  faded.  Astonishment,  disappointment, 
something  altogether  strange  to  Mrs.  Chubbe,  took  its  place, 
and  she  made  as  though  to  go  back. 

Her  aunt  saw  the  movement  and  called  "Betty." 

The  child  slowly  turned.  Lady  Kezzy  looked  round,  and 
her  niece,  following  her  example,  smiled  across  at  the  other 
child.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  with  a  puzzled  look,  gazed  from  one 
to  the  other.  Betty  had  never  before  shown  shyness  like 
this. 

"Come  in,  child;  don't  stand  staring  there."  Slowly,  re- 
luctantly, the  small  feet  crept  over  the  red  bricks. 

"Betty,"  there  was  a  touch  of  amazed  anger  in  the  voice, 
"where's  your  manners,  child?  Curtsey  to  my  lady."  Still 
with  that  curious  expression  on  her  small  face,  the  child 
obeyed,  dropping  as  low  an  obeisance  as  could  be  desired. 
The  white  clad  figure  behind  Lady  Kezzy  had  risen,  and  now 
stood  smiling  into  the  brilliant,  provoking  face  opposite. 

"Now  to  my  Lady  Mary,  Betty,"  continued  Mrs.  Chubbe, 
slightly  mollified.  But  Betty  stood  straight. 

"Betty,  do  you  hear  me?    Curtsey  to  my  lady." 

A  murmured  whisper  came  from  the  defiant  lips,  almost 
it  sounded  like  "No,"  as  Mrs.  Chubbe  stood  aghast,  wonder- 
ing if  Heaven  itself  would  open  and  rain  fire  on  such  audacity. 
Lady  Mary  laughed,  a  low  rippling  laugh,  and  my  Lady  Kezzy, 


122  When  Pan  Pipes 

almost  as  frightened  as  her  hostess,  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak,  but  the  farmer's  wife  forestalled  her. 

"My  lady,  my  lady,  you  must  forgive  her.  I'm  afraid 
she's  sadly  spoilt."  Then  to  the  culprit,  "Betty,  you  bad, 
wicked  child;  curtsey  to  your  betters,  and  thank  the  ladies 
for  their  kindness.  My  lady,"  she  turned  deprecatingly,  "she 
shall  have  the  soundest  whipping — "  She  stopped.  Mary  had 
flown  to  her,  and  now,  with  a  little  gloved  hand  resting  on 
hers,  a  little  fair  face,  turned  upward,  pleaded  for  the  of- 
fender. 

"Mrs.  Chubbe,  don't  please  spoil  our  visit.  She  didn't  mean 
any  harm,  I'm  sure;  and  you'll  hurt  me  far  more  than  Betty 
if  you  beat  her.  Please — " 

Mrs.  Chubbe's  bark  was  worse  than  her  bite.  Already  the 
grim  face  had  relaxed,  and  the  child,  seizing  her  advantage, 
urged  no  more,  but  turned  to  the  other. 

"Betty,"  she  moved  closer,  "why  didn't  you  want  to  curtsey 
to  me  ?"  There  was  curiosity  in  her  voice,  and  the  two  elders 
watched  from  very  interest.  Betty  put  her  finger  in  her  mouth, 
said  nothing,  but  gazed  at  the  flower-like  face  before  her,  half 
defiant,  half  fascinated. 

"Betty,  do  tell  me.     I  shan't  be  a  bit  angry." 

The  finger  came  out,  was  wiped  nervously  on  the  white 
pinny.  The  bright  head  hung  slightly,  and  a  suspicion  of 
shamed  colour  rose  in  the  little  face.  There  was  a  moment 
of  breathless  suspense. 

"Because,"  murmured  Betty,  still  drawing  her  finger  up  and 
down,  "because — "  The  brilliant  eyes  suddenly  lifted  and 
looked  with  proud  decision  straight  into  the  blue  eyes  watch- 
ing, "because  you're  only  a  little  girl,  like  me,  my  lady." 

It  was  over.  The  suspense  broke  up.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  would  have  pounced,  but  Mary  held  up  a 
warning  hand.  Betty  shot  a  defiant  glance  at  the  waiting  gods, 
then  a  wondering  one  at  the  other  child.  Mary  nodded. 

"I  quite  understand,"  she  said,  and  Lady  Kezzy  gasped. 
"I  don't  mind  curtseying  to  my  aunts,  but  I  shouldn't  like 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        123 

to,  to  another  little  girl.  But — "  she  moved  closer,  "if  you 
won't  curtsey  to  me,  Betty,  will  you  kiss  me?" 

Betty  stared — made  a  kind  of  choking  sound,  and  started 
forward,  flinging  her  arms  wildly  round  the  other's  neck. 

"Oh,  my  lady,  my  lady,  I  do  love  you,  and  if  you  want  me 
to,  I'll  curtsey  just  as  much  as  ever  you  like."  Mary  returned 
the  embrace  warmly,  and  laughed. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  want  you  to,  Betty.  Friends  don't 
curtsey  to  each  other,  and  we're  going  to  be  friends,  aren't 
we?" 

Betty  nodded.  Something  choked  in  her  throat,  and  her 
eyes  were  moist.  Lady  Kezzy  half  rose,  a  puzzled  expression 
in  her  mild  eyes ;  she  was  unused  to  violent  emotion.  It  was 
Mrs.  Chubbe  who  saved  the  situation,  breaking  in  somewhat 
reproachfully : 

"My  lady,  if  you  encourage  the  naughty  girl  in  her  fancies, 
what  can  I  do?"  Her  visitor  seized  the  opportunity. 

"Martha  is  quite  right,  Mary.  Betty  forgot  her  manners 
for  the  moment,  and  besides,  was  disobedient.  She  will  apolo- 
gise, I'm  sure,  for  her  rudeness,  won't  you,  my  dear?" 

And  Betty,  subdued  by  the  force  of  love,  dropped  a  curtsey 
to  my  Lady  Kezzy,  although  still  careful  not  to  include  her 
niece,  and,  prompted  by  her  aunt,  said  her  words. 

"Please,  my  lady,  I'm  sorry  I  was  rude.  Will  you  kindly 
forgive  me?"  Lady  Kezzy  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  The 
incident,  confirming  her  sister's  judgment,  had  upset  her,  and 
she  was  thankful  to  see  the  end,  mentally  resolving  that  during 
Mary's  short  visit,  there  should  be  no  repetition. 

"And  now,  Martha,  will  you  show  us  your  dairy,  and  let  us 
have  a  drink  of  milk.  Mary  is  so  anxious  to  see  the  chickens 
and  pigs." 

A  certain  stiffness  lingered  during  the  remainder  of  the 
visit.  Only  the  children,  with  children's  power  of  throwing 
away  unpleasantness,  were  thoroughly  at  ease,  and  both  grown- 
ups parted  with  a  sense  of  duty  done.  Strangely  enough,  no 
scolding  was  forthcoming.  Mrs.  Chubbe  continued  her  skim- 


124  When  Pan  Pipes 

ming  and  Betty  her  currant  stalking.  It  was  not  until  the 
afternoon  that  the  visitors  were  referred  to  again.  Then,  as 
usual,  it  was  Betty's  tongue  which  always  followed  the  work- 
ings of  her  brain. 

"Aunt  Martha,  isn't  Lady  Mary  beautiful?  I  do  love  her. 
Don't  you?"  Mrs.  Chubbe  gazed  abstractedly  into  the  small 
upturned  face  and  made  no  answer.  Her  thoughts  were  seem- 
ingly far  away. 

"Isn't  she,  Aunt  Martha?"  Betty  got  more  than  she  bar- 
gained for.  Mrs.  Chubbe  stooped,  caught  the  little  figure  in 
a  close  embrace,  holding  her  fast  for  a  moment;  then,  with  a 
somewhat  shame-faced  expression,  set  her  hastily  down. 

"There,  there,  child,  run  away;  Lady  Mary's  everything 
that's  sweet  and  good.  More's  the  pity,"  she  added,  under 
her  breath.  And  Betty,  her  curiosity  roused  almost  to  burst- 
ing point,  durst  ask  no  questions,  but  slipped  away,  profoundly 
mystified,  and  with  a  queer  feeling  on  her  cheek  of  a  kiss,  and 
something  wet,  like  a  tear.  Stranger  still  was  the  fact,  that 
though  she  expatiated  on  Lady  Mary  to  Jerry,  she  was  silent 
about  the  later  incident.  Somehow  she  could  not  speak  of  it. 
A  student  of  humanity  might  have  told  her  that  real  love  can- 
not be  spoken  of — it  dwells  in  the  heart,  silently. 

The  visit  was  not  repeated.  Neither  did  the  children  catch 
another  glimpse  of  the  ladies,  although  they  were  heard  of 
as  having  called  at  several  of  the  larger  farms.  On  the  Sat- 
urday Mary  returned  to  London,  and  Cloudesley  dropped  into 
its  usual  monotony.  Jerry  was  bitterly  disappointed.  Betty 
had  fired  his  interest,  and,  unknown  to  her,  he  had  lurked  in 
lanes  which  led  to  the  different  farms,  had  secreted  himself 
behind  bushes  outside  the  Hall  gates,  in  the  hope  of  catching 
sight  of  the  wonderful  being,  glorified  by  Betty  into  something 
between  an  angel  and  a  fairy,  altogether  beyond  anything  in 
this  wicked  world. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  Jerry,  with  a  deep  sigh,  submitted 
to  the  inevitable  and  applied  himself  to  work.  He  was  get- 
ting on — "like  a  stack  on  fire,"  the  schoolmistress  said — and 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        125 

Lady  Kezzy  singled  him  out  for  special  approbation.  Soon, 
very  soon  now,  he  would  be  able  to  write  a  letter  to  Margery. 
A  child  keeps  no  count  of  time,  and  it  never  occurred  to  Jerry 
that  she  might  be  with  him  before  a  letter  could  reach  her. 

His  hoard  of  pennies  was  growing,  and  with  the  acquiring 
of  new  knowledge,  another  want,  a  personal  one,  arose. 
Books  were  practically  unknown  in  either  the  cottage  or  the 
inn,  but  on  several  occasions  Lady  Kezzy  brought  to  the  school 
illustrated  volumes  of  travel,  and  Jerry  looked  at  the  pictures 
and  listened  to  her  explanations  with  eyes  and  ears  entranced. 
To  possess  such  a  thing  became  his  one  desire.  The  churn 
and  waistcoat  had  long  ago  been  dismissed  as  impossible, 
though  Betty's  wants  still  held  good.  Those,  after  sorting  out, 
resolved  themselves  into  a  new  ribbon  and  a  cake  of  soap. 
The  remainder  (Jerry  worked  it  out  to  a  nicety)  might  per- 
haps buy  the  coveted  possession,  "when  pedlar  comes,"  which 
would  probably  not  be  until  November.  Jerry  possessed  his 
soul  in  patience,  and  accumulated  pennies,  which  Farmer 
Chubbe  kept  for  him,  adding  occasionally  a  small  bonus  for 
luck. 

There  was  little  time  for  loneliness,  yet,  in  the  quiet  of  his 
small  room,  especially  after  he  got  into  bed,  there  were  times 
when  he  longed  inexpressibly  for  the  sympathy,  the  inter- 
change of  words,  with  one  who  loved  and  understood;  for 
some  of  the  old  merry  chatter  and  laughter,  for  a  glimpse 
into  the  world  of  story  and  legend,  which  can  only  be  given 
by  one  who  has  the  key.  There  was,  too,  the  childish  longing 
for  affection,  for  kisses,  for  a  warm,  soft  shoulder  to  lean 
against,  the  touch  of  a  gentle  hand,  the  sound  of  a  loving  voice. 
And  sometimes,  before  he  dropped  off,  he  wondered  vaguely 
when  Margery  would  come  again. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  and  the  widow  wondered  too,  the  former, 
solicitous  for  the  child's  welfare,  the  latter,  for  the  profit 
he  brought.  In  September  came  the  looked  for  letter,  and 
its  contents  cast  a  gloom  over  Jerry's  little  life  which  took 
weeks  to  remove.  Margery  was  not  coming.  A  little  child 


126  When  Pan  Pipes 

had  come  and  gone,  leaving  an  empty  space  where  no  space 
had  been,  a  space  of  which  the  mother,  hovering  between  life 
and  •  death,  was  as  yet  unconscious.  When  she  awoke,  she 
would  realise,  and  between  the  lines  of  Margery's  letter,  those 
who  could,  read  of  a  great  battle  between  the  love  for  kith 
and  kin,  and  the  love  of  adoption.  In  the  end  natural  affec- 
tion conquered,  and  Margery  stayed,  with  a  promise  to  re- 
turn, if  possible,  next  year.  "Tell  Mrs.  Hagges,  dearie,"  went 
on  the  letter,  "that  I  have  written  to  the  lawyers,  and  the 
money  will  go  on  as  before."  Then  followed  expressions  of 
love,  crossed  kisses,  and  all  that  could  be  said  in  a  letter  written 
from  dictation.  As  before,  Jerry  got  it  at  second  hand,  and 
it  fired  him  to  further  efforts.  Perhaps  by  the  time  the  next 
came  he  would  be  able  to  read  real  writing. 

September  went  by.  The  geese  were  sold,  probably  eaten. 
Corn  was  cut  and  garnered,  and  the  summer  tasks  came  to 
an  end.  The  goose-girl  changed  to  an  ordinary  child;  the 
swineherd  dug  potatoes  and  beets,  herding  cows  in  the  in- 
tervals; the  knight  mounted  his  steed  and  rode  away  to  the 
castle.  But  there  were  times  when  he  stole  out  and  helped 
pick  the  potatoes  from  their  stalks  or  stack  the  bulging  crim- 
son roots.  No  longer  was  he  pale  and  fretful.  Count  de 
Cosse  had  watched  joyfully  the  pale  face  tan  and  fill  out,  the 
thin  frame  broaden. 

"We'll  make  an  Englishman  of  you  yet,  Paul,"  he  said 
one  day,  and  the  child  answered  gravely,  "Yes,  Farmer 
Chubbe  says  I  shall  be  able  to  fight  Jerry  soon,  and  Jerry's 
very  strong." 

The  count  laughed,  taking  much  credit  to  himself,  but  giv- 
ing some  to  Lady  Kezzy.  She,  with  a  woman's  thought  for 
the  future,  wondered  if,  after  all,  they  had  been  wise.  The 
visit  to  the  inn  lingered  unpleasantly  in  her  mind.  Did  Mary, 
in  her  London  home,  ever  think  of  it?  Betty's  memory,  she 
guessed,  was  long. 

As  October  waned,  Jerry  heard  many  allusions  to  "pedlar's 
visit."  Mrs.  Chubbe  wanted  dimity  for  curtains,  Betty  had 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        127 

been  promised  red  cloth  for  a  winter  pelisse.  Handkerchiefs 
for  the  farmer,  a  ribbon  for  Sally  and  Nancy,  various  odds 
and  ends  as  the  time  grew  short.  The  widow  had  long  ago 
determined  on  a  length  of  black  merino.  Jerry,  saying  very 
little,  dreamt  of  the  treasures  his  money  would  purchase  with 
now  and  then  a  sinking  of  heart. 

"Suppose  there  were  no  books  in  pedlar's  pack." 

The  great  event  loomed  near.  Word  came  that  pedlar  had 
arrived  at  the  neighbouring  village  of  Thaxton,  and  Jerry, 
excitement  causing  his  heart  to  beat  furiously,  then  almost 
stop,  sought  out  the  farmer  after  his  morning's  work  was  done. 
He  found  him  in  the  small  inn  parlour  smoking  a  pipe  with 
Peter  the  Ranger,  who  was  evidently  full  of  news.  He  glanced 
up,  smiled  at  the  small  figure,  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat  at 
his  side.  Peter  gave  a  casual  nod,  and  went  on. 

"My  lord's  mighty  pertic'lar,  but  he  woan't  find  much  to 
grumble  at,  I'll  lay  my  life.  There's  woods  without  a  dead 
branch  in  'em,  an'  hedges  where  a  rabbit  couldn't  go  through. 
An'  there's  game  for  more'n  my  lord's  bringin'.  'Tis  reason 
— for  years  there  been  no  company  oop  there — "  jerking  a 
thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  Hall.  "An'  the  birds  are  cryin' 
out  to  be  shot.  There's  foxes,  too,  in  plenty.  Silly  creatures, 
don't  know  the  difference  'tween  a  hound  an'  a  spaniel.  But 
they'll  learn,  oh,  they'll  learn  fast  enough,"  he  added  with  a 
chuckle,  "when  huntin'  time  comes,  an'  my  lord  an'  his  gen- 
tlemen ride  with  the  pack,  which  is  eatin'  its  head  off  in  the 
kennels." 

"Who's  comin',  Peter?"  interrupted  the  farmer,  knowing 
that  the  Ranger,  once  set  going  on  the  subject  of  neglected 
sport,  was  warranted  to  go  on  till  forcibly  stopped. 

"Who's  comin'?  Aye,  there,  I  don't  rightly  know.  Mrs. 
Lovegrove  says  six  gentlemen,  an'  a  young  run — Sir  Francis 
Crewe's  son.  But  there'll  be  fine  doin's — fine  doin's — and 
time  enough  too.  Maybe  my  lord's  shaken  off  the  trouble, 
an'  Cloudesley'll  be  all  the  better,  say  I — an'  you  too,  Mr. 
Chubbe,  I'll  be  bound.  It'll  bring  custom."  The  clink  of 


128  When  Pan  Pipes 

money  and  a  call  interrupted  the  flow  of  conversation.  The 
ranger  finished  his  tankard  of  ale  with  noisy  appreciation,  and 
rose. 

"Well,  I'll  be  going.  Good-mornin'  to  you,  landlord ;  good- 
mornin',  boy."  The  farmer  nodded,  then,  motioning  Jerry  to 
stay  where  he  was,  served  the  waiting  customer,  returning 
after  a  short  colloquy. 

"An'  now,  laddie,  what  d'ye  want?" 

Jerry  looked  up,  his  brown  eyes  full  of  suppressed  excite- 
ment. "Oh,  please,  Mr.  Chubbe,  they  say  pedlar's  coming 
soon,  and  I  want  to  buy  a  book  and  some  things,  and  please, 
if  you  don't  mind  very  much,  may  I  have  my  money?"  The 
farmer  smiled  broadly  down. 

"Well,  well,  to  think  on  it.  After  savin'  an'  savin',  an'  now 
wants  to  spend.  What's  the  need,  laddie?  Can't  ye  let  it 
bide?"  Jerry  shook  his  head. 

"  'Tisn't  wasting  it,  Mr.  Chubbe,"  he  said  eagerly ;  "really. 
I  can  read  now,  you  know,  and  I  do  want  a  book  of  my  own, 
so  very  much."  Again  the  listener  smiled. 

"D'ye  know  how  much  there  is,  my  boy?"  Jerry's  reckon- 
ing had  been  too  close  to  allow  for  hesitation. 

"Three  and  six,"  he  answered  promptly. 

"Aye,"  said  the  farmer  slowly.  "There's  that,  an'  more. 
What  d'ye  think  of  five  grand  new  shillin's?"  The  brown 
face  flushed  hotly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Chubbe — how  good  you  are.  Thank  you,  thank 
you,  very,  very  much."  And  the  farmer  felt  repaid  with  in- 
terest. . 

"How  much'll  the  book  be?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,  but  I  thought  about  two  shillings. 
If  I  might  have  three  and  six,  please.  I  won't  waste  it,  I 
promise." 

"Well,  well,"  Mr.  Chubbe  rose  leisurely,  "I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  you  want  to  buy  a  fairin',  an'  I  know  who  for.  You're 
a  good  laddie,  an'  Betty's  a  spoilt  little  hussy.  I  can't  say 
you  nay,  but  don't  spend  it  all  on  her." 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        129 

He  was  opening  a  drawer  as  he  spoke,  and  now  drew  out 
a  great  cash  box  and  gave  into  the  little  hand,  horny  and 
grimed  with  work,  four  glittering  silver  shillings.  Jerry  re- 
garded them  with  quickening  breath  and  an  expression  such 
as  older  people  might  wear  when  holding  a  million  pound 
note.  Finally  he  produced  a  piece  of  rag,  laid  his  property 
in  it  and  secured  it  with  a  string,  tying  it  all  round  his  neck, 
there  to  keep  company  with  the  amulet  till  the  great  day  ar- 
rived. 

"Take  care  of  it,  laddie,"  said  the  farmer  as  the  child  went 
off.  Jerry  nodded.  His  thanks  had  been  few,  but  they  were 
understood. 

"Don't  take  much  to  make  a  child  happy,"  soliloquised  the 
farmer,  as  he  turned  in  to  his  dinner.  "Well,  well." 

The  pedlar  drew  nearer,  arriving  at  length  one  Thursday, 
cart  and  all,  at  the  inn.  But  first  skim  was  not  for  such 
people  as  the  widow.  To  the  Hall,  where  his  pack  gave  much 
satisfaction  and  some  hours'  amusement  to  the  crowd  of  idle 
varlets  and  maids  assembled  for  my  lord's  company;  on  to 
the  Dower  House,  where  even  my  Lady  Kezzy  condescended 
to  purchase  winter  flannel  for  Christmas  gifts;  next  to  the 
inn  and  large  farms,  then  the  smaller  tenantry,  and  at  last — 
at  last — late  on  the  Saturday  afternoon,  to  the  cottage  in  the 
lane  came  the  pedlar,  enveloped  in  mystery,  heavy  with  the 
atmosphere  of  London,  of  countryside  and  lonely  wanderings, 
of  drugs  and  perfumes  from  the  far  East,  of  fine  laces  and 
lawns  from  sunny  France,  of  cashmeres  soft  and  warm,  of 
garnets,  topazes,  and  amethysts  from  blue  lapped,  palm-fringed 
shores,  even  of  gleaming  pearls  from  wondrous  tropical 
seas. 

He  himself  was  a  short,  stout  man,  with  dark,  strongly 
marked  features,  lustrous  eyes,  black  hair,  and  a  curious 
foreign  accent — a  Jew,  without  question,  and  with  all  the 
Jew's  keen,  alert  air,  where  business  was  concerned.  Folk 
said  he  must  be  worth  a  sight  of  money,  and  there  were  vague 
rumours  of  a  shop  in  London  filled  with  wonders  of  the  earth, 


130  When  Pan  Pipes 

replenished  from  great  ships  whose  captains  traded  with  its 
master. 

It  was  only  a  humble  pack  which  he  unstrapped  in  the 
widow's  kitchen.  No  mystery  or  romance  there.  Within  five 
minutes  chairs  were  draped  artistically  in  soft  colours,  while 
on  the  table  lay  sparkling  brooches,  belts,  handkerchiefs,  cheap 
caps,  shawls,  fronts  of  various  tinted  hair,  stockings,  in  fact 
everything  necessary  to  the  toilet  of  a  lady  not  too  well-to-do. 
The  widow  shook  her  head  as  the  brightly  coloured  materials 
were  flaunted  before  her.  Pedlar  said  little,  but  continued 
to  throw  his  wares  lightly  over  every  available  article  of  furni- 
ture. He  stopped  once,  when  the  widow,  suddenly  interested, 
handled  a  grey  merino,  whose  silver  folds  decorated  the  red- 
cushioned  chair. 

"Now  that  is  strange,"  cried  the  pedlar,  holding  up  two 
dark  podgy  hands,  "my  lady  at  the  house  bought  one  similaire. 
Her  taste  is  goot,  and  yours,  madame,"  he  smiled  and  bowed, 
"is  quite  equal.  See,"  he  moved  the  shimmering  folds,  "how 
soft,  how  bekomming.  And  dirt  cheap."  He  named  the  price, 
but  the  widow,  still  holding  the  material,  shook  her  head. 

"Ach !  then  I  will  meet  you."  The  price  came  down,  again 
it  was  met  with  a  sign  of  negation.  The  pedlar  sighed,  then 
began  to  fold  up. 

"It  is  a  pity,  but  perhaps  some  other  time.  We  will  now 
see  the  black  dress." 

The  material,  hurriedly  folded,  lay  on  a  chair,  and  the  widow, 
with  an  occasional  glance  at  its  alluring  folds,  inspected  the 
sombre  length  laid  out.  It  was  soon  decided  on,  and  the  pedlar 
proceeded  to  pack  up.  Presently  she  turned  to  the  chair  and 
once  more  lovingly  fingered  the  grey  dress. 

"It's  very  pretty,"  she  murmured.  The  pedlar  took  no  no- 
tice, only  Jerry,  standing  by  the  table,  saw  the  sharp  glance 
in  his  eye. 

"And  cheap,  too,"  came  the  low  whisper.  To  the  onlook- 
ers the  musings  were  of  prices  and  wearing  properties.  In 
the  widow's  brain  lurked  thoughts  very  similar  to  those  of 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        131 

the  maids  at  the  Hall.  In  imagination  she  saw  herself  attired 
in  the  grey  dress,  ministering  to  the  wants  of  Mr.  Padden. 
She  held  it  up  against  her,  peeped  into  the  bit  of  glass  on  the 
wall,  with  precisely  the  same  expression  as  Sally  or  Nancy 
might  have  worn,  and  something  as  soft  as  the  graceful  folds, 
crept  into  her  face. 

"Yes,  I'll  take  it,"  she  said  suddenly.  "You  can  put  it  by." 
The  pedlar,  all  attention  now,  turned  from  his  packing. 

"Ach!  said  I  not  that  madame's  goot  taste  would  prevail. 
And  now — a  cap  of  Buckinghamshire  lace,  which  is  cheap,  and 
a  ribbon  for  the  neck." 

The  bargaining  went  on.  To  Jerry,  waiting  with  suppressed 
impatience,  it  seemed  interminable.  At  last  it  was  over,  the 
money  paid,  and  the  widow  departed  with  her  treasures,  tell- 
ing Jerry  not  to  be  long. 

"And  now,  little  master,  what  can  I  find  for  so  small  a  cus- 
tomer ?"  The  dark,  keen  eyes  were  bent  on  him ;  they  seemed 
to  read  his  very  thoughts. 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Pedlar,  have  you  got  a  book?" 

"A  book  ?"  He  shook  his  head,  and  Jerry's  heart  sunk  like 
lead.  "It  is  not  a  common  thing  to  ask  for,  but  we  will  see — 
we  will  see." 

He  turned  to  another  part  of  the  great  pack,  and  undoing 
fastenings,  laid  back  the  leather  covering  and  disclosed  wares 
of  another  kind.  Silks,  wools,  and  various  materials  for 
working  lay  on  one  side,  on  the  other,  a  few  Bibles  and  Prayer 
Books,  and  a  small  pile  of  writing  paper.  The  pedlar  dipped 
beneath,  and  produced  a  thickish  volume  of  "The  Keepsake," 
a  fashionable  periodical  of  the  time,  elegantly  bound  in  crim- 
son watered  silk,  but  somewhat  stained  and  tattered. 

"Though  where  I  got  it,  I  cannot  say,"  said  its  owner,  shak- 
ing his  head,  and  turning  the  pages  thoughtfully.  Jerry  gazed 
with  excited  longing;  there  were  pictures  he  could  see,  and 
big  reading.  Surely  such  a  volume  would  be  beyond  his 
means. 

"Well?"  the  black  eyes  gazed  curiously  at  him.     "Shall  we 


132  When  Pan  Pipes 

say — two  shillings  ?"  A  weight  lifted  itself  from  Jerry's  heart ; 
he  breathed  deeply. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Pedlar ;  yes,  that  will  do  nicely."  The 
treasure  was  handed  over ;  the  money  bag  produced  after  much 
fumbling,  and,  with  fingers  trembling  with  delight,  two  of  the 
bright  shillings  were  counted  out.  Betty's  ribbon  and  bottle 
of  scent  caused  much  thoughtful  consideration,  but  at  last  the 
bargain  was  clinched,  leaving  threepence  over,  which  was  in- 
vested in  snuff  for  the  farmer,  and  Jerry  stood,  shorn  of  his 
riches  it  is  true,  but  withal  a  very  happy  little  boy.  The  pedlar 
cast  a  sidelong  glance  as  he  stood  watching  the  packing. 

"Do  you  live  here,  my  leetle  boy?"  he  asked  at  length. 
Jerry  nodded. 

"But  I  shan't  always.  When  Margie  comes  home,  we  shall 
live  together,  and  keep  pigs  and  chickens.  She's  my  nurse, 
you  know." 

The  pedlar  gathered  up  his  goods,  folding  and  packing  them, 
but  said  nothing.  When  at  last  the  big  straps  were  pulled  and 
buckled,  he  turned. 

"You  will  not  always  live  here,  that  I  can  see.  I  see  much ; 
you  will  come  to  London,  will  you  not?  And  then  you  will 
see  many  wonderful  things.  You  will  see  great  houses,  and 
the  great  people  who  live  therein,  ships,  and  the  big  river 
which  brings  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  to  London.  And 
then  your  wings  will  grow  big  and  strong.  They  are  sprout- 
ing now,  I  feel  them."  He  touched  Jerry's  shoulders  lightly 
— once — twice.  "And  then,  perhaps  you  will  fly  away,  but 
not  for  long,  oh,  not  for  long.  For  once  you  kom  to  London 
city,  you  must  kom  again.  Will  you  kom?"  The  child  lis- 
tened with  entrancement  in  his  eyes.  The  soft  tones,  the  sim- 
ple words,  conjured  up  magic  pictures,  vague,  bewildering,  yet 
beautiful. 

"Yes,  I  will  come  some  day,  when  I  am  grown  up." 

"There  are  a  few  years  to  wait  for  zat."  The  pedlar  smiled. 
"But  I  shall  kom  again  next  year,  and  the  next.  And  if  you 
want  more  books,  I  will  send  them  if  you  write  to  me.  Here 


How  the  Goose-girl  Met  the  Fairy        133 

is  my  address."  He  took  out  a  piece  of  paper,  and  wrote, 
giving  it  to  Jerry.  By  the  time  the  pack  was  fully  strapped, 
the  widow  returned;  refreshment  was  provided,  and  the  ped- 
lar's visit  was  over — gone,  like  other  things,  into  the  past.  But 
the  widow  and  Jerry  had  lasting  signs  of  its  reality,  and  to 
each  it  marked  an  epoch. 

To  Jerry  it  was  like  a  magician's  visit.  And  what  did  he 
mean?  Only  birds  had  wings.  Surely — no,  it  could  not  be 
"that  he  had  used  enchantment.  That  night,  when  all  was  still 
and  dark,  Jerry  crept  out  of  bed,  lighted  his  candle,  and  stole 
noiselessly  out.  Past  the  witch's  door,  down  the  steep  steps, 
and  into  the  warm,  sleeping  kitchen.  As  usual,  all  the  things 
woke.  They  were  alive  and  grinning  at  him  as  he  drew  off 
his  night  clothes,  and  craning  his  neck,  managed  to  see  the 
back  of  his  shoulders  by  the  aid  of  the  little  glass  in  which 
the  widow  had  seen  herself  clad  in  soft  grey.  The  glass 
laughed.  He  saw  so  many  things,  and  knew  the  thoughts 
which  lay  behind.  Jerry  breathed  deeply.  The  fear  was  gone. 
There  was  nothing  but  the  sturdy  brown  shoulders.  He 
stretched  his  hands  behind  to  make  sure,  and,  greatly  com- 
forted, went  back  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  KISS  FOR  THE  GOOSE-GIRL,  A  MASTER  FOR  THE  WITCH,  AND  A 
PRISON   FOR  THE   FAIRY 

THE  gifts  were  distributed  next  day,  but  long  after  the 
snuff  was  finished  and  the  ribbon  worn  out,  the  charm 
of  the  pedlar's  visit  lingered.  It  shed  its  halo  round  Jerry 
as  he  dug  turnips  in  the  dull  November  morning,  whistling 
gleefully,  and  working  like  a  small  engine.  Farmer  Chubbe, 
passing  by,  patted  his  shoulder,  and  one  or  two  of  the  older 
farm  men  smiled  approval  and  gave  words  of  advice.  Nancy 
brought  him  a  hunch  of  cake.  Altogether  Jerry  felt  that  the 
world  was  good,  and  his  brain,  helped  by  mechanical  exer- 
cise, worked  rapidly.  He  wondered  very  much  what  the  ped- 
lar had  meant  by  his  remark  about  wings,  but  it  was  secondary 
to  the  great  idea  which  had  been  suggested.  To  go  to  Lon- 
don, to  go  into  a  fairy  tale.  Why,  here,  of  course,  was  the 
reason  for  saving  his  pennies.  For  the  future  Betty  must 
wait.  He  would  save  and  save,  and  then,  one  day — of  that 
he  would  ask  the  pedlar — he  would  start  off,  like  the  miller's 
son,  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  come  back  a  great  gentleman, 
with  gifts  for  Betty  and  all.  Oh,  but  the  fairy  tales  were 
coming  true.  Here  was  romance,  at  his  very  feet,  only  wait- 
ing to  be  picked  up. 

Time  flew  rapidly  that  morning.  He  was  in  the  thick  of 
calculations,  when  the  field  gate  opened  and  Paul  came  to- 
wards him.  The  friendship  between  the  children  had  ripened 
quickly.  Jerry,  strong  and  sturdy,  had  acquired  a  sort  of 
protective  affection  for  the  slim  delicate  boy,  combined  with 
admiration  for  his  knowledge  of  the  world  and  great  folk. 
Paul,  utterly  free  from  snobbishness,  accepted  the  homage 

134 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison  135 

in  the  spirit  of  a  knight,  whose  squire  may  or  may  not  be  as 
well  born  as  himself,  but  by  virtue  of  fewer  years  is  his  serv- 
ant for  the  nonce. 

To  Betty,  both  boys  were  slaves,  as  becomes  a  knight  and 
his  squire  to  the  princess  they  serve,  and  proved  herself  a 
veritable  little  tyrant.  In  her  absence  they  were  as  men  friends, 
discussing  matters  unbiassed  by  feminine  influence. 

"Did  pedlar  come,  Jerry?"  asked  Paul  eagerly.  He  knew, 
of  course,  the  whole  history  of  the  pennies,  and  was  as  inter- 
ested almost  as  his  friend.  Jerry  nodded,  and,  not  neglecting 
his  turnips,  plunged  into  details. 

"And,  Paul,  he  says  I  shall  go  to  London  one  day.  So  I 
am  going  to  save  and  save,  and  then  I  shall  set  out  one  morn- 
ing and  seek  my  fortune."  Paul  listened  entranced,  yet  with 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  in  his  mind. 

"But  what  will  you  do,  Jerry,  in  London?  It's  so  big,  and 
the  people  I  don't  think  are  so  nice  as  the  Cloudesley  people." 

"Oh,  that  wouldn't  matter  a  bit,"  said  Jerry.  "You  see,  I 
think  I  shall  go  straight  to  the  king  and  ask  him  if  he  wants 
a  servant,  and  I  should  tell  him  that  I  was  only  a  poor  little 
boy,  but  my  daddy  was  a  gentleman.  And  I'd  work,  oh,  I'd 
work  so  hard  for  him,  and  I'd  watch,  so  that  no  one  should 
ever  hurt  him,  and  I'd  fight  for  him."  Paul,  every  doubt 
dispersed  by  Jerry's  earnest  conviction,  interrupted  eagerly. 

"I  know,  Jerry.  You  can  be  one  of  the  king's  pages.  He 
always  has  them.  I  know  a  boy  who's  one."  Jerry's  eyes 
opened  wide — he  almost  forgot  the  turnips. 

"And  I  tell  you  what."  The  interest  was  being  fanned 
into  flame.  "When  you're  ready,  I'll  ask  my  father  to  help 
you,  or — I  know — a  splendid  plan,"  he  moved  closer,  with 
eyes  lit  with  the  delightful  idea,  "I'll  ask  Mary — she'll  be 
coming  to  the  Dower  House  soon — and  she'll  tell  the  earl 
all  about  you,  and  perhaps  he'll  speak  to  the  king,  and  ask 
him  if  he's  got  room  for  another  page." 

Jerry's  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  Here  was  a  royal 
road  indeed,  but  a  doubt  crept  in. 


136  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Do  you  think,  will  she  ?  Lady  Mary,  I  mean.  She  doesn't 
know  me.  Do  you  think  she'd  do  that?" 

"I'm  sure  she  would,"  answered  Paul  confidently.  "You 
see,  Mary  and  I  are  great  friends.  I  like  her  almost  as  much 
as  Betty.  Lady  Kezzy  wants  me  to  marry  her  some  day,  but 
I  don't  think  I  shall.  Besides,  my  dad  says  the  earl  has  other 
plans.  Anyhow,  she'll  do  that  if  I  ask  her,  I'm  sure." 

"And  you  will,  oh,  Paul,  promise  you  will." 

"I  will,  Jer;  here's  my  hand.  We're  friends,  you  know." 
And  Jerry,  wiping  his  earthy  hands  on  his  smock,  took  the 
slim  white  hand  and  shook  it  furiously,  the  colour  deepen- 
ing in  his  little  brown  face,  and  the  steady  brown  eyes  dark- 
ening with  affection,  and  gratitude,  and  visions,  and  all  sorts 
of  beautiful  things.  And  then  Paul  had  his  little  bit  of  gos- 
sip. 

"I  say,  Jer,  all  those  people  are  coming  to  the  Hall  to-day. 
Isn't  it  horrid?  They'll  be  riding  over  to  our  house,  and 
my  father  and  I  are  asked  there  to  dinner,  and  I've  got  to 
go  because  Francis  Crewe's  coming;  and  oh,  Jer,  I  do  hate 
him  so.  He's  sixteen,  and  he  thinks  he's  a  man,  and  he  smokes 
and  drinks,  and  all  the  time  he  only  looks  silly.  No  one  likes 
him,  but  he's  got  lots  of  money.  I  think  he's  a  sneak." 

"Is  he  ?  What  does  he  do  ?"  Jerry  was  hearing  wonderful 
things. 

"Oh,  he's  cruel  to  animals  for  one  thing,  and  he's  not  truth- 
ful, and — and — oh,  all  sorts  of  horrid  things.  I  wish  he 
wasn't  coming."  Jerry  could  offer  no  advice.  Bad  boys  of 
sixteen  were  creatures  apart  from  his  world.  He  consoled 
his  friend  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but  Paul  was  in  the  lowest 
of  spirits,  and  inclined  to  be  irritable  on  the  subject. 

Cloudesley,  unchecked  by  edicts,  watched  the  arrival  of  the 
guests  that  afternoon.  In  his  travelling  berlin,  with  postillions 
gay  in  the  gorgeous  Fleet  livery  of  green  and  gold,  arrived 
the  Marquis  of  Fleet,  accompanied  by  Captain  Culpepper, 
cousin  and  heir  to  the  title,  also  by  his  friend,  Sir  Francis 
Crewe,  and  his  son.  The  Duke  of  Flemington  drove  tandem, 


A  Kiss,,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          137 

and  was  followed  by  his  brother,  Lord  Henry  Sands,  a  master 
whip,  whose  curvetting,  prancing  horses  and  miniature  groom, 
hanging  on  behind  for  dear  life,  afforded  infinite  interest  to 
the  gaping  villagers.  Colonel  Mortimer  Hayes  drove  four-in- 
hand,  bringing  the  remaining  guests  with  him. 

So,  amidst  whirling  dust  and  prancing  horses,  voices,  laugh- 
ter, and  the  music  of  horns,  the  gay  party  drove  through 
the  great  gates,  up  the  long  chestnut  avenue,  and  the  Hall 
was  once  more  ablaze  with  light  and  colour,  with  the  flashing 
of  gorgeous  liveries,  the  reflections  of  dark,  polished  floors, 
the  gleam  of  great  mirrors,  the  glitter  of  silver  and  glass,  and 
many-hued  flowers. 

Jerry  watched  with  the  others,  a  host  of  new  emotions 
roused  in  him.  He  had  no  envy  of  Paul,  but  the  thought 
would  come  that  Paul  was  only  a  little  boy  like  himself,  and 
yet,  between  their  lives,  was  a  great,  great  gulf.  A  longing 
to  see  the  wonders  that  wealth  can  bring  possessed  him.  There 
were  marvellous  tales  afloat  of  my  lord's  arrangements  for  the 
entertainment  of  his  guests.  A  certain  amount  of  discontent 
at  the  dull  routine  of  the  cottage,  and  a  distaste  for  turnips 
and  cows  came  upon  him;  but,  above  all,  something  stirred 
newly,  possibly  assisted  by  the  pedlar's  words,  something  which 
grown-up  people  would  call  ambition,  about  which  hung  a 
veil  of  romance,  giving  other  things  a  commonplace  and  ugly 
look. 

Excitement  reigned  in  Cloudesley.  Sport  was  good,  and  all 
day  long,  from  fields  and  covers,  came  the  pop-pop  of  distant 
guns.  The  village  was  full  of  strangers,  London  servants, 
valets,  grooms,  and  the  Cloudesley  Arms  did  a  thriving  busi- 
ness. Now  and  then  some  of  the  older  guests,  those  who  had 
visited  the  Hall  as  young  men,  would  step  inside  the  inn  par- 
lour to  chat  with  its  landlord  and  drink  a  glass  of  old  port. 

"Same  as  your  lordship  used  to  like  when  you  was  a  young 
man,  and  stayed  at  the  Hall  when  I  was  butler  there.  I  had 
it  from  the  cellars  of  His  Grace  of  Wynderley,  when  his 
grace's  town  house  was  sold  to  pay  the  debts  of  his  son." 


138  When  Pan  Pipes 

And  the  visitor,  shaking  his  head  in  sympathy  with  His  Grace 
the  Duke  of  Wynderley,  would  plunge  into  gossip  of  the  town, 
Mr.  Chubbe  listening  deferentially,  adding  his  own  little  bits 
of  knowledge,  and  enjoying  it  all  with  the  zest  of  one  who 
lives  away  from  the  great  world. 

A  new  demon  had  woke  in  Betty,  a  demon  of  curiosity  and 
love  of  admiration.  Her  aunt  declared  that  the  last  state  was 
worse  than  the  first.  No  lessons  were  learned,  needlework 
became  well  nigh  impossible,  so  hot  were  the  little  fingers. 
In  vain  were  tasks  assigned.  Betty  seized  every  opportunity 
to  prink  herself  out  in  the  new  ribbon  and  walk  in  the  street, 
or  lurk  in  corners  near  the  inn,  or,  better  still,  to  find  an  ex- 
cuse to  visit  the  inn  parlour.  Mrs.  Chubbe  was  at  her  wits' 
ends. 

"Drat  the  company  at  the  Hall,  say  I,"  was  her  constant 
remark,  "the  sooner  they're  gone  the  better  for  Cloudesley. 
A  pack  of  idle,  grinning  idiots,  an'  their  masters  aren't  much 
better.  Nothin'  to  do  but  turn  the  girls'  heads,  which  ain't 
much  trouble,  Lord  knows,  an'  make  'em  neglect  their  work, 
an'  that's  no  difficult  thing,  neither.  It's  like  Bedlam  itself. 
Folks  seem  to  ha'  gone  mad." 

But  no  words  affected  Betty.  The  child's  temperament 
needed  personal  experience;  the  lesson  could  only  be  learned 
by  herself. 

It  was  one  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  the  week.  The 
red  curtains  of  the  inn  parlour  were  drawn  snugly.  Shoot- 
ing was  over  for  the  day,  and  most  of  the  Hall  folk  had 
returned.  The  Marquis  of  Fleet  and  Sir  Francis  turned  in 
for  a  chat  and  rest.  Here  they  were  joined  by  Paul  and 
young  Francis,  who  brought  a  message  for  his  father. 

The  room  was  comfortable,  the  gossip  interesting,  and  the 
two  boys  lingered,  unforbidden.  Mr.  Chubbe,  bustling  in  and 
out,  produced  a  cobwebby  bottle,  Sally  brought  glasses,  and 
the  rich,  crimson  liquid  glowed  through  the  thick  cut  glass, 
making  the  room  sweet  with  its  luscious  aroma. 

"P'raps  the  young  gentleman  will  take  a  glass."    The  inn- 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison  139, 

keeper,  bottle  poised  in  the  air,  glanced  towards  the  arm- 
chair in  which  the  young  gentleman  lolled,  regardless  of  the 
marquis's  evident  disapproval.  He  accepted  with  a  curt  nod. 
The  marquis  frowned,  Sir  Francis  took  no  notice,  and  the  land- 
lord glanced  towards  Paul. 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Chubbe;  my  father  doesn't  allow 
me  to  take  wine."  The  marquis  nodded  approval  and  the 
incident  passed.  The  gentlemen  sipped  their  wine  slowly  and 
appreciatively;  then,  gossip  being  exhausted,  donned  their 
heavy  cloaks,  set  out,  Sir  Francis  bidding  his  son  not  to  be  late 
for  dinner. 

Paul  hesitated  and  would  have  followed,  but  the  other 
plucked  his  sleeve,  and  he  stayed.  The  landlord  returned 
to  the  cosy  room  rubbing  his  hands — there  was  a  sting  of 
frost  outside — refilled  his  guest's  glass,  and  would  have  taken 
up  the  conversation  but  that  a  farm  hand  arrived  with  a  mes- 
sage. Mr.  Chubbe  rose  hastily. 

"I  hope,  gentlemen,  you  won't  take  it  amiss  if  I  leave  you 
for  a  few  minutes.  The  boy  tells  me  there's  something  wrong 
wi'  one  o'  the  cows." 

"All  right,  Chubbe,"  Francis  Crewe  nodded  carelessly; 
"you  go  along  and  see  after  your  cow ;  we're  all  right." 

"Thank  you,  gentlemen,  thank  you.  I  won't  be  long." 
Francis  Crewe  looked  after  him. 

"Old  fool !  Who  wants  him,  if  he'll  leave  his  wine  behind 
him.  Come  on,  Paul,  don't  be  a  milksop.  Hold  out  your 
glass." 

"I  don't  want  any,  Francis ;  I  don't  like  it." 

"More  fool  you."  He  filled  his  glass,  tossed  it  off,  and 
refilled  it  from  a  second  bottle. 

"Old  Chubbe  knows  good  wine.  So  do  my  dad  and  the 
marquis.  Wonder  how  much  of  the  story  is  true,  or  whether 
he  nobbed  it  from  the  Cloudesley  cellars." 

"Francis !"  The  child's  tone  was  indignant.  "How  can  you 
think  such  a  thing  ?" 

"Ah,  Master  Milksop,  you'll  find  out  things  when  you're 


140  When  Pcm  Pipes 

as  old  as  I  am.  Wonder  how  long  the  old  boy'll  be.  It's 
cosy  enough  here." 

There  was  a  silence.  Paul  wandered  out  of  the  room  in 
search  of  Betty.  That  young  person,  secure  in  the  kitchen, 
had  somehow  got  wind  that  grand  folk  were  in  the  house. 
Her  aunt  kept  vigilant  watch,  but  the  sudden  illness  of  the 
cow  put  her  off  her  guard.  With  a  command  to  the  child 
to  stay  where  she  was,  Mrs.  Chubbe  followed  her  husband 
to  the  scene  of  action.  No  sooner  was  she  alone  than  every 
injunction  slipped  from  Betty's  mind.  Paul  was  there — she 
would  go  and  find  him.  She  stepped  cautiously  across  the 
long  passages,  no  one  was  about,  and  reached  the  parlour 
without  meeting  a  soul,  Paul  having  gone  the  front  way. 

All  was  silent.  Had  the  gentlemen  gone?  Betty's  heart 
sank;  all  that  trouble  for  nothing.  She  gently  pushed  the 
door  and  looked  in.  The  room  lay  in  shadow,  but  a  sudden 
leaping  flame  revealed  its  single  occupant,  and  Betty  moved 
further  in.  The  handsome  dark  face  was  turned  from  her, 
and  for  some  moments  she  watched,  wondering  at  the  fine 
clothes,  the  sparkling  ring  he  wore,  and  the  whole  graceful 
negligence  of  the  figure.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen 
a  gentleman  so  close. 

He  turned,  and  stretching  out  his  hand  for  the  bottle, 
suddenly  stopped.  "Hallo!  Where  did  you  spring  from? 
What's  your  name?" 

"I'm  Betty,  please  sir." 

"Betty !  And  who's  Betty  when  she's  at  home  ?"  The  child 
stared. 

"I'm  just  Betty,  Betty  Chubbe." 

"Oh!  so  you're  Betty  Chubbe.  Well,  then,  Betty,  since 
you've  sneaked  into  a  gentleman's  room,  you'd  better  speak 
to  the  gentleman.  Come  here." 

He  beckoned  with  the  sparkling  finger,  and  the  child  came 
slowly  forward.  Here  was  excitement  indeed.  He  looked 
her  up  and  down,  from  tiny  elfin  feet  to  elfin  gold  curls  glint- 
ing in  the  firelight,  and  there  was  something  in  the  bold,  in- 


A  KisSj  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          141 

solent  glance  which  made  Betty,  child  as  she  was,  shrink  back. 
The  boy  saw  the  movement,  and  catching  her  dress,  drew  her 
nearer.  The  thought  passed  through  his  mind  that  he  would 
like  to  see  the  fire  flash  in  those  dark  eyes,  the  colour  deepen 
in  the  cheeks. 

"D'ye  like  wine,  Betty  Chubbe?"  he  asked;  "your  dad's 
wine,  kept  for  gentlemen."  She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,  I've  never  tasted  it."  He  filled  a  glass, 
and  handed  it  to  her  with  a  mock  bow. 

"Now  taste,  and  say  'Your  health,  sir.' "  The  rosy  wine,  the 
soft  firelight,  the  glamour  of  the  adventure  seized  the  child. 
With  a  little  bubbling  laugh  she  took  the  glass,  and  sipped, 
repeating  the  words. 

"Is  it  good  ?"  he  asked,  still  staring  at  her,  and  Betty  nodded 
rapturously. 

"Go  on,  then — finish  it."  She  sipped  again  and  again ;  then 
set  the  glass  down. 

"I  don't  want  any  more,  thank  you,  sir."  Already  the  rich 
liquid  was  doing  its  work.  Some  of  its  crimson  mounted  in 
the  little  face ;  the  dark  eyes  grew  brilliant.  Francis  Crewe 
could  hardly  take  his  glance  from  the  beautiful  picture. 

"Come  here,"  he  commanded,  pulling  her  close.  He  would 
have  taken  her  on  to  his  knee,  but  Betty  drew  back. 

"What's  the  matter?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  hurt  you, 
little  silly?"  He  put  his  arm  round  her,  but  Betty  stood  firm, 
and  for  a  moment  he  desisted. 

"All  right,  then.  Little  girls  who  won't  do  what  a  gentle- 
man asks  them  must  be  punished.  I  shall  cut  off  your  curls." 
Had  he  searched  her  inmost  mind,  he  could  not  have  hit  on 
a  more  telling  threat.  Her  curls — the  pride  of  her  life.  She 
put  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  fright.  Francis  Crewe 
produced  a  small  pocket-knife. 

"Now,  then,"  he  drew  her  towards  him  by  sheer  force ;  "and 
if  you  scream,  or  make  any  noise,  I'll  cut  your  pretty  little 
mouth." 

For  a  moment  Betty  stood  motionless,  the  colour  dying 


142  When  Pan  Pipes 

away,  and  a  look  of  fear  in  her  eyes.  Francis  Crewe  laughed 
— a  cruel,  malicious  laugh — and  opened  the  knife.  And  then 
Betty's  natural  temper,  heightened  by  the  wine,  asserted  it- 
self. He  drew  her  close,  and  pulled  a  curl  as  though  to  cut 
it.  At  the  sudden  pull,  fierce  anger  rose  in  the  child.  Swoop- 
ing suddenly,  she  pounced  on  the  hand  which  held  her,  and  in 
a  second  had  fixed  four  little  sharp  teeth  in  it. 

With  an  oath,  the  boy  dropped  the  knife,  started  back,  dis- 
engaging his  hand,  and  in  the  sudden  pain  and  anger  lifted  it 
to  strike.  Betty,  white  and  shaking,  glared  at  him.  Every 
trace  of  fear  gone — fierce  rage  devouring  every  other  emotion. 
The  blazing  eyes,  the  thin  crimson  lips,  the  intense  whiteness 
of  her  skin,  seemed  to  strike  him  anew ;  the  lifted  arm  dropped, 
and  he  laughed  maliciously. 

"You  little  vixen,  but  you're  not  going  to  get  off  like  that. 
I  won't  steal  your  curls,  nor  hurt  you,  but — damme — if  you 
shan't  give  me  a  kiss  before  you  go.  Two,  if  you  don't  do  it 
willingly."  Every  nerve  in  Betty's  little  body  tingled  with 
rage.  How  dare  he  tease  her  like  that?  She,  Betty  Chubbe, 
the  spoilt  child  of  the  inn,  who  gave  her  kisses  where  she 
chose. 

"Now,  then."  The  boy  advanced  with  a  malicious  smile 
on  his  face.  With  a  choke  of  rage,  Betty  sprang  forward, 
doubled  up  her  small  fist,  and  hit  him  square  on  the  mouth. 
Laughing  spitefully,  he  caught  both  hands.  A  scream,  she 
knew,  would  probably  bring  assistance  at  once,  unless  they 
all  happened  to  be  with  the  cow,  but  Betty  preferred,  if  pos- 
sible, to  fight  her  own  battles.  Moreover,  she  would  have  to 
own  to  humbled  pride. 

"I'll  bite  if  you  kiss  me,"  she  said.  But  her  enemy  was  un- 
daunted. 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,  I  shall  hold  your  head."  He  seized 
her,  half  laughing,  half  in  real  anger.  The  child  struggled, 
kicking  and  fighting  with  all  her  strength. 

"Little  spitfire,"  he  cried,  as  he  held  her  tightly,  and  stooped 
to  take  the  threatened  kiss. 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          143 

There  were  footsteps  along  the  tiled  passage.  For  the  hun- 
dredth part  of  a  second  he  paused.  It  was  enough.  Betty 
gave  in  and  cried  out.  In  an  instant  Paul  was  across  the 
room. 

"You — you  coward!  You  bully!  All  right,  Betty,  don't 
cry,  I'm  here.  He  shan't  tease  you  any  more.  Let  her  go." 
The  older  boy  relaxed  slightly,  but  still  held  her. 

"Let  her  go?"  he  answered  with  a  sneer.  "Who  says  so? 
She  was  rude  to  me,  and — " 

"Let  her  go,  I  say,"  shouted  Paul.    "Let  her  go,  or — or — " 

"Or  what?"  sneered  the  other. 

"Or — this."  Paul's  fist  was  perhaps  not  so  strong  as  Jerry's, 
but  it  was  strong  enough  to  cause  his  opponent  to  loosen  his 
grasp.  Betty  slipped  away ;  the  tears  were  coming  now,  thick 
and  fast. 

For  a  moment  the  big  boy  dropped  back ;  then,  with  a  snarl, 
sprang  forward,  and  in  an  instant  the  pent  up  hatred  between 
a  vicious  nature  and  a  proud  one  burst  its  bonds,  and  the  two 
were  locked  in  a  fierce  struggle.  Round  and  round  the  room 
they  went,  struggling,  tumbling,  swaying,  breathing  heavily, 
then  gasping  in  long  drawn  sighs.  Over  went  the  table,  chairs 
fell,  ornaments,  even  the  curtains  came  in  for  a  share,  and 
Betty  fled,  wildly  screaming  for  help,  all  pride  forgotten  in  the 
terrible  skirmish. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  the  sick  cow  was  deserted  for  a 
worthier  cause.  Servants  and  hinds  blocked  the  doorway. 
Mr.  Chubbe,  suddenly  entering,  came  in  full  collision  with 
the  combatants,  but  they  saw  nothing,  knew  nothing.  Round 
and  round,  again  and  again  they  went.  Francis  Crewe,  tall 
and  slight,  and  with  the  advantage  of  years,  had  distinctly  the 
best  of  it,  but  Paul,  though  his  nose  was  bleeding,  and  the 
diamond  ring  had  cut  his  forehead,  held  on,  his  breath  com- 
ing in  long  gasping  sobs. 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  for  God's  sake,  what's  it  all  about?" 
Almost  distracted,  Mr.  Chubbe  made  another  onslaught,  but 
was  again  repulsed.  Now  two  of  the  ostlers  rushed  in,  and 


144  When  Pan  Pipes 

by  sheer  force  separated  the  boys,  holding  them  tightly  in  spite 
of  their  wild  struggles  to  free  themselves. 

"Leave  go,  sirrah,"  cried  Francis  Crewe  fiercely.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  interfering  in  a  gentleman's  quarrel?"  The 
landlord  came  forward. 

"No,  no,  sir.  You  can't  fight  any  more;  or  if  you  must, 
take  your  quarrels  elsewhere.  And  you,  sir,"  he  turned  to 
Paul,  "for  shame,  a  little  boy  like  you." 

"You  don't  understand,  Mr.  Chubbe."  The  haughty  tone 
was  worthy  of  an  older  man.  "This  gentleman  and  I  have  a 
dispute,  about — about — "  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  "about 
a  wager.  But  I  acknowledge  we  had  no  right  to  settle  it  here. 
I  apologise  for  myself,  and — "  he  looked  across  at  the  other, 
who  nodded  sulkily,  "and  Mr.  Crewe.  As  for  the  damage — " 
glancing  at  the  disordered  room,  "of  course,  you  shall  not 
suffer." 

The  landlord  stared,  half  laughing  at  the  haughty  tone. 
He  turned  it  off  with  a  few  words,  and  Paul,  still  with  the 
grand  manner  of  one  older,  advanced  to  his  opponent,  who, 
still  held  by  each  arm,  glared  like  a  tiger. 

"The  quarrel,  Mr.  Crewe,  is  not  ended." 

"No,  by  God,"  cried  the  other  passionately;  "but,"  the  tone 
changed  to  an  ordinary  boy's,  "we'll  fight  it  out  another  time." 
It  was  over.  With  a  sullen  ferocious  snarl,  Francis  Crewe 
shook  himself  free,  and  snatching  his  hat  and  cloak,  strode  out. 
The  room  emptied,  and  Paul  turned. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Chubbe.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  it  was  about,  but  I'm  sure  you  and  Jerry  would  say 
I  did  right."  He  held  out  his  hand ;  the  landlord,  sorely  puz- 
zled, shook  it  heartily,  and  helping  him  into  his  cloak,  saw  him 
to  the  door. 

Back  in  the  dark,  disordered  parlour,  he  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  vaguely  at  the  havoc  wrought — yet  seeing  nothing, 
for  his  thoughts  were  far  away.  Something  in  his  niece's 
tone  and  appearance  convinced  him  that  she  knew  more  than 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          145 

came  to  the  surface.  What  was  she  doing  there  at  all  ?  Mr. 
Chubbe  shook  his  head  slowly  and  meditatively.  "Wimmen, 
wimmen — "  he  ejaculated  musingly.  Then,  suddenly  realis- 
ing, stooped  and  picked  up  some  broken  bits  of  glass,  ruefully 
regarding  the  overturned  bottles  and  stained  carpet. 

"There'll  be  the  dickens  to  pay  over  this  here  business," 
he  murmured.  And  his  wife  entering  suddenly,  cordially  as- 
sented. 

"I'll  have  no  more  of  it,"  she  said.  "That  child's  at  the 
bottom  of  this.  To-morrow,  as  early  as  I  can  get  her  dressed 
and  you  can  start,  off  she  goes  to  Mrs.  Plumtre's.  She's 
asked  her  an'  Jerry  many  a  time,  an'  if  widow'll  spare  him, 
he  shall  go  too.  He'll  keep  her  in  order,  the  saucy  baggage. 
An'  she  don't  come  back  till  every  man-jack  o'  they  fine  gen- 
tlemen be  gone.  A  pack  o'  lazy  good-for-nothings,  quarrelling 
an'  fightin'  here  like  a  couple  of  pothouse  fellows,  an'  draggin' 
in  the  little  count.  Som'un'll  have  to  warn  his  father.  There'll 
be  mischief  done  else,  or  I'm  much  mistook.  You'll  ha'  to  see 
the  count,  master."  Her  husband  nodded. 

"This  very  night,  missis.  I'll  have  no  blame  i'  the  matter." 
Within  an  hour,  Mrs.  Chubbe  had  consulted  the  widow,  packed 
Betty's  bundle,  and  made  arrangements  to  ensure  early  de- 
parture. For  once,  Betty,  completely  subdued,  acquiesced 
without  a  murmur.  She  had  learned  her  lesson,  though  in 
learning  came  bitter  humiliation. 

The  count,  wise  man,  took  little  outward  notice,  caution- 
ing Matthew  Chubbe  to  do  the  same.  But  for  the  next  two 
days  he  kept  his  son  at  home.  The  wound,  and  a  certain 
amount  of  feverishness,  were  sufficient  reasons.  On  the  third 
day  both  father  and  son  left  for  London,  and  the  fight  was 
forgotten,  save  by  the  two  most  nearly  concerned.  The 
smouldering  enmity  between  the  boys  had  blazed  up  and  been 
extinguished.  It  had  yet  to  burn  itself  out. 

Once  more  the  cottage  in  the  lane  was  tenanted  only  by 
its  mistress  and  the  black  cat.  Strangely  enough,  both  missed 


146  When  Pan  Pipes 

the  little  square  figure  on  the  three-legged  stool.  Tibbie  purred 
round  the  kitchen,  finally  making  a  journey  upwards  and  re- 
turning unconsoled. 

The  widow  found  the  drawing  of  water  and  the  chopping 
of  wood  irksome  tasks;  even  in  washing  dishes  she  turned, 
expecting  to  see  a  chubby  brown  hand  stretched  out  for  the 
dripping  utensil.  It  is  true  that  the  grey  dress  gave  her  food 
for  thought — no  light  business  is  the  garment  with  which  Sally 
intends  to  charm  her  admirer — and  when  at  last  it  was  put 
on,  the  red  ribbon  and  lace  tucker  complete,  the  widow  eyed 
herself  in  the  bit  of  glass  with  a  flutter  of  her  heart  and  a 
strange  emotion,  something  like  the  emotion  which  might  rep- 
resent love  in  a  starfish. 

There  was  a  goose  for  dinner.  Its  savoury  odours  floated 
out  into  the  damp  November  morning.  Inside  the  cottage 
burned  bright  wood  fires.  Even  the  front  room  couldn't  help 
feeling  cheerful,  and  the  armchairs,  drawn  close  to  the  hearth, 
each  with  its  crimson  hassock  and  cushion,  grinned  at  each 
other  as  though  they  knew  all  about  it.  The  widow  wound 
up  the  jack,  popped  in  potatoes  and  greens,  gave  a  last  stir 
to  the  apple  sauce,  a  last  peep  at  the  bubbling  pudding,  mended 
both  fires,  and  stood  waiting  for  the  familiar  knock. 

The  minister  paused  almost  imperceptibly  before  entering, 
but,  in  that  pause,  she  knew  that  her  new  appearance  was 
noticed  with  admiration.  The  words  of  greeting  fluttered  in 
her  throat  and,  as  the  minister  took  the  plump  hand  jn  his, 
laying  his  other  over  it  in  tender  possession,  something,  which 
in  Sally  might  be  called  a  blush,  crept  over  the  fat  cheeks,  and 
the  widow's  blue  eyes  dropped  beneath  his  ardent  glance. 
With  a  smile,  meant  to  be  encouraging,  he  led  her  into  the 
front  room,  slightly  inhaling  the  fragrance  from  the  kitchen 
on  the  way.  He  lifted  his  hands  in  ecstasy  as  the  blazing  fire 
and  comfortable  table  met  his  eye. 

"Home,  happy,  happy  home,"  he  murmured.  The  widow, 
flattered  and  bashfully  perturbed  at  the  subtle  allusion, 
bridled,  smiled  modestly,  and  backed  out  of  the  room  to  dish 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison  147 

the  frizzling  goose.  Left  alone,  the  minister  purred  around 
the  room,  minutely  inspected  the  spoons  and  forks,  attempted 
to  lift  the  lid  of  a  bureau,  but,  finding  it  locked,  shook  it,  lis- 
tening carefully  for  any  sound  which  might  betray  its  con- 
tents. The  smile  dropped  from  his  lips — it  had  never  been 
in  his  eyes — and  the  wild  expression  of  fanaticism  changed  to 
one  of  greed.  He  raised  the  horsehair  mattress  of  the  sofa, 
where  the  widow  kept  papers,  opened  the  big  Bible,  and 
rapidly  flicked  its  leaves,  then  came  back  to  the  fire,  and  rub- 
bing his  hands  slowly  together,  gazed  meditatively  into  its 
glowing  depths. 

There  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  which  tells  of  a 
decision  made,  a  step  taken.  Though  the  widow's  sensitive 
nerve  was  about  as  much  developed  as  that  of  a  sheep,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  difference. 

The  minister  helped  her  with  an  air  of,  "With  all  my 
worldly  goods,  I  thee  endow,"  crowning  the  act  with  that 
dainty  morsel,  commonly  known  as  the  "wish  bone,"  and 
in  passing  his  plate  for  potatoes,  greens,  and  apple  sauce,  eyed 
her  with  such  an  amorous  look,  that  the  widow's  fat  hands 
trembled  and  the  scarlet  ribbon  fluttered  with  the  unwonted 
agitation  beneath.  She  regained  her  composure,  however,  dur- 
ing the  washing  of  dishes,  and  took  her  usual  seat  with  calm 
expectancy. 

Sleep  that  afternoon  had  fled  the  little  sitting-room.  Great 
events  were  about,  and  after  a  few  minutes  the  widow  fidgetted 
under  the  burning  gaze  from  the  opposite  chair.  She  closed 
her  eyes — in  vain.  They  opened  mechanically.  "Tick,  tick; 
tick,  tick,"  murmured  the  wooden  clock  on  the  mantelshelf, 
as  though  it  said,  "No  fool — like  an — old  fool." 

Kad  Jerry  been  there  he  would  have  seen  all  the  furni- 
ture come  alive  in  the  silence,  and  wait,  grinning  malevo- 
lently. 

The  minister  nursed  a  thin  bony  knee  with  two  thin  bony 
hands,  and  the  widow,  breathing  hard,  dropped  her  eyes  un- 
der the  bold  look.  "Tick,  tick;  tick,  tick,"  went  the  clock, 


148  When  Pan  Pipes 

like  a  sledge  hammer  in  the  silence,  "tick,  tick,"  till  five  min- 
utes became  an  eternity,  and  a  kind  of  hypnotic  trance  fell 
over  the  grey-gowned  figure  in  the  chair.  "Tick,  tick,"  the 
hands  moved  slowly  round.  Still  the  minister  gazed,  and  his 
opposite  neighbour  subsided  into  what  in  Sally  would  have  been 
a  shame-faced  ecstasy. 

"Tick,  tick;  whir-r-r-r — "  came  the  warning,  then  four 
times  the  harsh  strike,  and  the  silence  broke  up.  With  a 
quick  movement  the  minister  sprang  to  his  feet,  raised  his 
arms,  shook  them  in  passionate  gesture,  lifted  his  eyes  to 
the  ceiling,  and  groaned  loudly,  then  flung  himself  forward 
on  the  bony  knees  and  clasped  the  widow's  hand  in  his. 

"Fairest  among  women — peerless — incomparable,  whose 
eyes  are  as  the  eyes  of  doves,  whose  cheeks  are  as  roses  seen 
through  milk,  whose — whose — "  Here  the  minister's  similes 
came  to  a  sudden  end.  He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  the  hand 
with  fervent  intensity.  The  widow  turned  her  head  sheep- 
ishly. 

"This  lovely  hand,  toil-stained  with  honourable  work,  bear- 
ing the  impress  of  ministry  to  other's  needs ;  frail,  yet  strong 
with  the  strength  of  duty  done ;  beautiful  hand,  happy  indeed, 
thrice  happy,  the  man  who  possesses  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Padden  collected  his  thoughts, 
the  widow  made  a  movement,  drew  her  hand  away  and  rose, 
trembling  with  agitation.  In  a  moment  the  minister  sprang 
to  his  feet,  once  more  possessed  himself  of  both  hands,  and 
drew  her  slowly,  slowly  nearer. 

"Harriet — lovely  name.  Charming,  graceful — yet  linked 
with  one  so  unworthy.  Hagges!  Monstrous,  incredible  mis- 
take. But  law  and  the  church  provide  a  remedy."  He  dropped 
his  voice  as  the  widow,  fascinated,  drew  nearer.  "Change  it, 
loveliest  of  women.  Take  the  unworthy  name  of  one  un- 
worthier  still,  yet  who  loves  thee.  Take  me,  Harriet.  I — 
Simeon  Padden,  lowliest  of  the  lowly — ask  it.  Take  me — lead 
me — be  my  darling — my — wife."  Then,  with  a  vague  remem- 
brance of  the  marriage  service,  "Wilt  thou,  Harriet  ?" 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          149 

The  widow  trembled  like  a  jelly.  In  the  agitation  the  front 
slipped,  giving  her  a  rakish  appearance.  The  scarlet  bow  came 
untied,  even  the  lace  tucker  had  a  frightened  droop.  The  min- 
ister lifted  her  hands,  and  placing  them  on  his  shoulders,  held 
them  while  he  whispered  the  question  again.  The  widow's  lips 
trembled,  the  words  fluttered,  then  fell  on  the  silence.  The 
minister  threw  up  his  arms,  gave  a  loud  triumphant  cry,  and 
clasped  the  grey  figure  to  him.  With  a  deep  sigh  the  widow 
yielded,  and  the  minister  put  himself  into  a  pose  of  delirious 
joy — head  thrown  back,  eyes  upturned,  one  hand  caressing  the 
front  laying  on  his  arm,  the  other  encircling  the  broad  shoul- 
ders leaning  against  him. 

So  the  shadows  fell,  and  perhaps  even  the  widow's  dull 
ears  heard  a  magic  strain  from  deep  woods  and  leafy  glades. 
For  to  the  coarsest  natures  Pan  sometimes  sings  a  song  of 
love.  But  the  minister  heard  it  not.  There  are  ears  which 
hear  naught  but  the  strain  to  which  fauns  and  satyrs  dance, 
the  music  which  has  no  melody,  which  only  calls  to  the  vilest, 

lowest  passions  of  man. 

****** 

In  nature's  scheme,  events  small  and  large  are  of  equal 
value.  The  wooing  of  an  ant  is  a  small  thing,  yet,  doubt- 
less, to  the  ant,  the  all-important  event  of  the  universe — to 
nature  also,  since  it  is  an  event  on  which  hangs  the  fate 
of  many  generations  of  ants.  Had  any  one  told  my  Lord 
of  Cloudesley  that  the  episode  of  that  Sunday  afternoon  bore 
any  relation  to  his  own  concerns  he  would  have  been  dismissed 
in  haughty  silence.  What  are  important  matters  to  the  ant 
are  worlds  apart  from  the  lion's  daily  life.  Yet  Nature  has 
equal  need  of  each.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  comparison 
in  her  philosophy. 

My  lord's  guests  were  enjoying  themselves.  The  brilliant 
autumn  days  proved  irresistible,  and  my  lord's  hospitality  was 
lavish.  My  Lady  Karen  made  a  stately  chatelaine,  and  her 
sister,  always  a  lover  of  life  and  gaiety,  found  the  change  from 
the  dull  Dower  House  vastly  to  her  liking.  It  was  a  fortnight 


150  When  Pan  Pipes 

before  the  party  broke  up,  and  then  by  twos  and  threes,  till 
only  Lord  Henry  Sands,  Captain  Culpepper,  and  Colonel  Mor- 
timer Hayes  were  left.  Though  so  few  guests  remained,  rigid 
etiquette  still  prevailed,  not  an  iota  of  the  stately  ceremonial 
was  abandoned  even  though  the  party  was  shorn  of  its  great 
nobles.  But  now  the  last  evening  was  come.  The  morrow 
would  see  a  general  exodus  from  the  Hall — servants,  guests, 
hostesses — and  Cloudesley  would  return  to  its  ordinary  life. 

In  the  great  drawing-room  my  Lady  Karen  sat  by  a  blazing 
fire  of  logs.  Her  embroidery  frame  stood  before  her,  and 
the  long  jewelled  fingers  flashed  among  the  tinted  silks.  She 
wore  a  purple  velvet  dress,  its  folds  lying  on  the  huge  white 
rug  in  gleaming  richness.  My  Lady  Kezzy,  in  stiff  grey 
brocade,  sat  opposite,  a  book  on  her  knees,  and  a  little  pink 
flush  on  her  still  round  cheeks.  In  the  soft  light  of  many  can- 
dles, the  room  looked  the  picture  of  wealthy  comfort. 

The  click  of  an  opening  door  roused  both  ladies.  The  elder 
raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  then  dropped  them  carelessly. 
Lady  Kezzy  lifted  her  head  with  a  small  smile  to  greet  her 
brother.  He  came  leisurely  down  the  room  and  took  up  his 
position  on  the  hearthrug  between  his  sisters,  almost  facing 
Lady  Karen.  In  his  hand  he  held  an  open  letter.  There  was 
that  in  his  manner  which  betokened  absolute  mastery — the  at- 
titude of  one  superior  to  all  around  him,  accustomed  to  per- 
fect obedience,  and  brooking  not  the  slightest  opposition. 

"Karen,  I  wrote  a  fortnight  ago  to  Mother  Monica."  He 
paused,  my  lady  raised  her  eyes,  and  her  sister,  catching  a 
look  in  them,  loosened  her  hold  on  the  book,  which  slid  un- 
noticed to  the  ground.  The  earl  continued:  "To-day,  I  re- 
ceived her  answer,"  he  tapped  the  letter  slightly  with  two  fin- 
gers ;  "doubtless,  you  can  surmise  its  purport." 

Lady  Karen  carefully  lifted  her  frame  to  one  side  and  rose. 
Then,  crossing  the  room,  she  picked  up  the  fallen  book,  re- 
placing it  on  a  table.  Lady  Kezzy's  eyes  wore  a  frightened 
look  and  she  glanced  timidly  at  the  dark,  stern  face  of  her 
brother,  then  at  the  equally  haughty  one  above  her.  The  earl 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          151 

followed  each  movement  and  repeated  the  question.  Lady 
Karen  faced  him;  there  was  an  implied  protection  in  the  long 
jewelled  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  her  sister's  chair. 

"There  can  be  but  one  answer,  Edward,"  she  replied  coldly ; 
"your  terms  are  lavish,  and  the  Order  is  poor." 

"Yet  it  seems  that  the  Mother  can  afford  to  dictate  her 
own  terms,"  he  answered  harshly.  "She  accepts,  it  is  true, 
but  conditionally."  Lady  Karen's  lip  curled. 

"Accepts  conditionally?  Pray,  who  is  Mother  Monica  that 
there  should  be  any  conditions  in  accepting  as  pupil  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Earl  of  Cloudesley  ?" 

"As  you  say,  there  are  no  conditions  in  accepting  my  daugh- 
ter as  pupil."  Lady  Karen  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Then?"    • 

The  earl's  voice  was  smooth  and  even,  his  words  courteous, 
yet  something  told  of  depths  beneath.  Lady  Kezzy  listened 
breathlessly. 

"It  may  be  that  I  did  not  fully  explain  myself.  Mother 
Monica  is  more  than  satisfied  with  the  terms  offered  for  board 
and  tuition.  She  says,"  he  referred  to  the  letter,  "  'I  am  over- 
whelmed with  the  munificent  terms  of  your  offer,  although 
they  are  only  what  might  be  expected  from  one  who  has  al- 
ways been  our  friend  and  benefactor.  Lady  Mary  will  be  re- 
ceived with  open  arms,  for  her  own  sweet  sake,  and  also  for 
yours,  my  Lord  of  Cloudesley,  but — ' "  The  hand  holding  the 
letter  dropped,  and  the  earl  resumed  his  own  tone,  level — cold. 
"The  reverend  Mother  has  scruples,  conscientious  ones  prob- 
ably," he  added,  with  a  slight  sneer.  "She  makes  the  condi- 
tion that  Mary  shall  spend  her  holidays  away,  and  that,  at  nine- 
teen, she  shall  live  for  a  year  in  the  world,  in  order,  she  says," 
here  again  crept  in  the  note  of  sarcasm,  "that  she  may  know 
something  of  its  temptations.  After  that,  if  she  is  willing,  and 
I  still  hold  the  same  views  for  her  future,  she  shall  be  received 
back  as  a  novice." 

He  paused,  and  gazed  steadily  into  the  face  confronting  him. 
Lady  Kezzy  made  a  slight  sound,  and  half  rose,  but  her  sis- 


152  When  Pan  Pipes 

ter's  hand  on  her  shoulder  gently  pushed  her  down.  Lady 
Karen  stepped  forward,  as  cold,  as  haughty,  as  masterful  now 
as  her  brother,  yet  her  first  words  were  tactful,  even  gentle. 

"Edward — I  hoped — I  thought — that  this  wild,  wicked 
scheme  had  been  abandoned.  You  have  not  mentioned  it  for 
years.  In  the  first  pangs  of  sorrow,  the  first  heat  of  anger,  I 
could  understand.  But  surely,  time,  with  its  healing  powers, 
has  cured  the  wounds.  Would  you  wreak  your  vengeance 
on  a  defenceless  child?  It  is  not  worthy  of  you,  Edward. 
Surely  you,  head  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  England,  can 
afford  to  be  above  such  pettiness."  The  earl  smiled  grimly. 

"You  mistake  me,  sister.  My  laws,  once  passed,  can  be 
broken  only  by  myself.  For  me  exist  no  barriers.  As  you 
say,  I  am  above  such  pettiness.  Nevertheless,  in  this  case, 
as  my  opinions  differ  not  by  the  fraction  of  a  hair's  breadth 
from  what  they  were  eight  years  ago,  I  do  not  change.  Had 
Mary  been  a  boy  it  might  have  been  different.  Had  you, 
Keziah,"  he  turned  fiercely  to  the  cowering  grey  figure  in  the 
shadow,  "obeyed  my  will  this  would  not  have  happened.  As 
it  is,  the  title  passes,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "I  hardly 
know  to  whom.  And  Mary,  with  her  dowry,  and  every  penny 
— yes — every  penny,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "shall  go  to  enrich 
the  Order  of  St.  Quentin,  and,  incidentally,  the  Convent  of 
St.  Monica.  This  is  my  will.  See  that  Jt  is  respected." 

With  a  gesture  of  finality  he  turned  on  his  heel.  A  sudden 
movement  from  the  dim  corner  caused  him  to  halt  in  some 
surprise.  Lady  Kezzy,  moving  with  quick,  agitated  steps  to- 
wards him,  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  the  tears  in  her  soft 
blue  eyes,  the  sweet  lips  quivering. 

"Brother,  oh,  my  dear  brother,  think — think,  before  you 
do  this  thing.  Think  of  Mary's  bonny  face,  her  pretty  ways, 
of  her  love  for  us,  for  Cloudesley,  for  you.  Would  you  shut 
her  up  in  all  the  pride  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  deny  to  her 
God's  gifts  of  love,  of  wifehood,  motherhood?  Edward,  it  is 
a  living  death  you  offer  her ;  good  indeed  for  those  who  have 
tasted  the  bitterness  of  life,  for  those  weary  ones  who  seek 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison          153 

rest,  for  the  storm-tossed,  who  long  for  peace;  but  for 
Mary—" 

"Tush!"  ejaculated  the  earl,  drawing  his  hand  away.  But 
Lady  Kezzy  was  fairly  launched.  Impatiently,  almost  against 
his  will,  he  was  compelled  to  listen. 

"Ah,  brother,  don't  do  it.  Bury  your  pride,  your  hatred. 
Let  Mary  come  here  with  the  knowledge  that  it  is  her  home, 
while  it  is  yours.  Give  her — " 

"Stop."  The  word  came  like  thunder,  and  Lady  Kezzy, 
spent  with  the  unusual  emotion,  shrank  back. 

"Do  you  dare  to  speak  thus  to  me,  the  head  of  the  house? 
You  are  mad — as  mad  as  those  women  who  brought  the  curse 
upon  Cloudesley ;  as  mad  as  she  who  forsook  all  I  gave  her — 
all  this !"  he  made  a  comprehensive  gesture,  "for  poverty — 
shame;  as  mad  as  your  sister,  who  crept  like  some  scullion 
to  a  forbidden  tryst.  Mad — as  you  were,  thirty  years  ago, 
when  you  refused  Ross  of  Ardelimar.  For  that  you  suffer 
now.  I  tell  you,  Keziah,  had  you  married  him,  this  might 
have  been  averted,  for  your  son,  had  you  had  one,  would, 
through  his  father,  have  inherited  Cloudesley.  As  it  is,  Ross 
is  old — childless,  to  all  intents  and  purposes — and  Cloudes- 
ley— "  for  the  first  time  emotion  showed  in  a  stifled  groan, 
"Cloudesley — descending  in  a  straight  line  for  ten  generations, 
passes  to  an  unknown  heir." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  The  earl's  breath  came  thick 
and  fast;  Lady  Kezzy,  in  her  chair,  wept  quietly.  My  Lady 
Karen,  resting  her  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  gazed  scornfully 
from  one  to  the  other.  Presently  my  lord  spoke  again,  and 
his  voice  was  as  usual. 

"To-night  I  write  to  the  reverend  Mother,  accepting  her 
terms.  My  daughter  shall  see  the  world,  shall  know  some- 
thing of  it,  and  if  she  finds  it  hollow,  the  better  pleased  will 
she  be  to  seek  safe  shelter." 

"And  if  not?"  Lady  Karen  broke  in,  her  voice  as  even,  as 
emotionless,  and  frigid  as  her  brother's.  My  lord  turned  with 
a  shrug. 


154  When  Pan  Pipes 

"If  not,  then  Mother  Monica  will  have  herself  to  blame. 
And  now,  ladies,"  he  glanced  at  the  ormolu  timepiece  which 
stood  on  the  richly  carved  mantelpiece,  "I  must  leave  you. 
My  guests,  no  doubt,  are  wondering  at  my  absence." 

He  bowed  courteously,  but  with  a  touch  of  sarcastic  mock- 
ery, with  the  knowledge,  too,  of  unlimited  power  to  crush 
whatever  dared  to  pit  itself  against  his  will.  Yet,  even  as 
he  raised  his  head,  my  Lady  Karen  confronted  him,  her  dark 
eyes  almost  even  with  his — fearless,  purposeful,  decisive.  For 
a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other,  then  she  spoke. 

"Edward,  is  this  your  final  answer?"     He  inclined  his  head. 

"And  there  is  no  alternative;  no  other  way?" 

"None  whatever."    Lady  Karen  paused. 

"And  in  the  event  of  your  death?"  she  asked  at  length. 

The  earl  smiled. 

"I  am  still  a  young  man,  my  sister,  not  yet  forty.  I  shall 
not  die.  Yet  I  have  made  provision.  Mary  will  obey  my 
will  or  go  penniless.  Her  dowry,  in  any  case,  passes  to  the 
Order." 

"She  will  not  be  penniless  while  we  live,"  retorted  my  lady 
sharply.  Again  the  earl  smiled. 

"You  may  perhaps  remember,  sister,  that  you  are  some  fif- 
teen years  my  senior,  also  that  the  Dower  House  and  its 
revenues  are  not  at  your  disposal." 

"No."  Lady  Karen's  voice  was  still  hard  and  cold.  "Yet 
Mary  will  inherit  our  personal  property." 

"A  beggarly  three  hundred  a  year,"  sneered  my  lord. 

"Sufficient  with  our  savings  to  keep  her,  should  love  prove 
stronger  than  obedience."  The  earl  turned  fiercely  upon  her, 
his  dark  face  working. 

"My  God,  Karen,  do  you  dare  to  taunt  me?  You,  who 
have  always  been  a  model  of  discretion  and  wisdom.  Lis- 
ten, both  of  you."  He  brought  his  hand  down  with  a  crash 
on  a  small  table  near,  making  its  silver  ornaments  ring. 
"The  subject  is  closed.  My  word  is  law.  I  acknowledge  no 


A  Kiss,  a  Master,  and  a  Prison  155 

superior.  I  brook  no  opposition."  Lady  Karen,  undaunted, 
spoke  again. 

"You  may  not  acknowledge  a  superior,  Edward.  Never- 
theless, you  are  led  by  one  who  is  stronger  than  you,  who 
strives  for  a  great  cause.  It  is  Father  Francis,  who  has  worked 
on  your  better  feelings,  and  done  this  wicked,  cruel  thing." 
The  earl's  eyes  blazed  with  wrath.  Had  a  glance  killed,  my 
lady  would  have  said  no  more.  For  a  moment  he  stood  ir- 
resolute. Then,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he  subdued  his  anger. 

"Again  I  repeat,  I  own  no  superior.  Father  Francis  has 
my  welfare  at  heart,  the  welfare  of  my  family.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  matter  is  at  an  end." 

"Not  quite."  Lady  Karen  drew  herself  to  her  full  height, 
her  small  head  poised  itself  haughtily,  the  dark  eyes  glowed. 
"I  also  own  no  superior.  I  also  make  my  own  laws,  and 
in  this  matter,  Edward,  I  stand  firm.  It  is  I — and — "  she 
hesitated,  glancing  at  the  grey  figure  in  the  shadow,  "Keziah — 
against  you  and  Father  Francis."  The  earl  smiled  grimly. 
He  was  himself  again.  "So.  We  understand  each  other,  sis- 
ter. On  this  matter,  it  is  war  to  the  end." 

"War  to  the  end,"  repeated  my  lady. 

"Then  time  alone  will  show  the  victor.  Once  more,  ladies, 
I  bid  you  good-night." 

He  strode  calmly  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  let  himself 
out.  The  two  women  watched.  Then,  as  the  door  shut,  Lady 
Karen  gathered  up  her  silks,  closed  her  frame,  and  with  a 
curt  good-night,  followed  his  example.  For  a  few  minutes 
Lady  Kezzy  sat  on.  Then  rising,  she  opened  the  great  win- 
dow and  stepped  on  to  the  terrace.  A  frosty  moon  hung  in 
the  heavens;  bathed  in  its  silvery  light,  and  seen  through  a 
mist  of  autumn,  Cloudesley  lay  dreaming,  a  picture  of  peace- 
ful happiness.  Yet  beneath,  my  lady  knew,  lay  sorrow,  weari- 
ness, cruelty,  all  the  ills  of  this  mortal  flesh.  She  sighed  as 
she  gazed  on  the  beautiful  scene;  here,  at  least,  she  was  at 
liberty  to  throw  off  obedience  and  conjure  up  remembrance. 


156  When  Pan  Pipes 

All  the  past  rose  before  her.  Mima,  the  dear  young  sister 
who  had  taken  her  life  into  her  own  hands,  and  for  love, 
defied  her  brother's  anger,  counting  the  world  well  lost. 
Where  was  she  now?  Lady  Kezzy  sighed  again.  Surely, 
surely,  sometime  she  would  come  back.  The  tears  flowed 
thick  and  fast ;  through  the  mist  little  Mary's  face  laughed  into 
hers,  and  my  lady  clenched  her  small  fingers.  Never — never 
should  Mary  suffer  as  those  other  women  had  suffered.  And 
yet,  might  it  not  be  better  to  suffer  and  love  than  know  noth- 
ing but  unemotionless  monotony? 

She  lifted  her  head  with  a  perplexed  look.  Out  on  the  clear 
air  Church  Clock  struck  midnight,  and  to  my  lady's  ears  came 
the  sound  of  Pan's  piping.  Light,  airy,  as  the  tripping  of 
fairies'  feet,  heavy  as  the  music  of  fauns  and  satyrs,  melan- 
choly, lonely,  yet  with  a  note  underneath  of  something  differ- 
ent— a  note  which  stirred  in  my  lady's  heart,  dispersing  some 
of  its  misery.  For  through  nature  runs  ever  a  trickling  thread 
of  gold,  lighting  the  whole,  and  men  call  it  Hope.  So  my 
lady  turned  to  the  house,  and,  gathering  up  her  book,  sought 
her  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

OF   SOME  ODDS  AND   ENDS   WHICH   PIECE  THE  STORY  TOGETHER 

CLOUDESLEY  was  itself  again.     My  lord's  guests  had 
scattered  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  and  Mr.  Chubbe 
had  been  dispatched  to   fetch  home  Jerry  and  Betty.     Re- 
luctantly Mrs.  Plumtre  let  them  go. 

"For  they  be  dea-ar  children,  farmer,"  said  she.  "Little 
miss  do  like  her  own  way,  to  be  shu-ar;  but  then,  'tis  nat- 
ural." 

Betty's  tongue,  as  usual,  went  apace.  Jerry  even  broke  in 
with  tales  of  the  wonderful  holiday  they  had  had.  Mrs. 
Plumtre  was  evidently  an  adept  in  the  art  of  spoiling,  and 
Miss  Betty  responded  nobly.  Jerry,  it  appeared,  had  held 
long  conversations  with  his  hostess,  gleaning  much  informa- 
tion as  to  the  running  of  an  inn,  the  baiting  of  horses,  and  the 
management  of  grooms. 

"I  think,"  continued  Jerry  solemnly,  "that  when  I'm  grown 
up,  quite  grown  up,  you  know,  after  I've  been  a  king's  page, 
I  shall  be  an  innkeeper.  Mrs.  Plumtre  says  she'll  learn  me 
the  business.  That's  what  her  son  ought  to  have  been,  only 
he  went  away." 

Mr.  Chubbe  nodded  gravely.  He  knew  the  wretched  story. 
A  spoiled  child,  money  wasted  and  borrowed,  and  the  fear 
of  a  debtor's  prison,  mingled  with  shame  and  a  certain  respect 
for  his  mother,  causing  a  night  flitting — all  so  common,  yet 
none  the  less  sad. 

"Of  course,"  went  on  the  quiet  little  voice,  "I  shall  go  to 
London  first ;  I  told  pedlar  I  would.  But  I've  promised  Mrs. 
Plumtre  to  look  for  her  son,  and  I'm  quite  sure  I  shall  find 
him  some  day." 

157 


158  When  Pan  Pipes 

Mr.  Chubbe  gazed  abstractedly  before  him,  clicking  his 
tongue  so  many  times  at  Jenny,  the  mare,  that  she  turned  a 
wondering  head.  Betty  babbled  on  unheeded. 

"So  you're  going  to  leave  us,  laddie,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
silence.  Jerry  looked  up. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Chubbe.  You  see,  I  must  earn  some  money; 
I  want  such  a  lot,  and  I  want  to  see  London.  But  I  shan't 
go  yet,  not  till  I'm  twelve,  an'  I  shall  often  come  back  an' 
see  you  all."  The  farmer  shook  his  head  and  sighed  thought- 
fully. 

"Well,  well — 'tis  right,  laddie.  Young  things  must  try  their 
wings.  But  'tis  hard  on  the  old  birds  when  the  little  ones 
leave  the  nest.  Yes,  'tis  cruel  hard,"  he  added  musingly. 
Then  suddenly  changing  his  tone,  "Come,  Jenny,  come.  Most- 
ways  home,  lass ;  put  thy  best  foot  foremost." 

And  Jenny  flew  like  the  wind,  causing  the  children  to  hold 
on  tight,  screaming  delightedly,  and  the  journey  ended  amidst 
peals  of  laughter,  clattering  hoofs,  and  shrill  childish  voices, 
gleeful  for  home  and  for  the  welcome  awaiting  them.  Lazy 
Betty  found  it  hard  to  go  back  to  primer  and  slate.  There 
was  much  pouting  and  many  tears  before  the  old  Adam  was 
finally  mastered.  Mrs.  Chubbe  declared  that  she  was  worse 
than  ever,  and  administered  whippings  freely. 

Jerry,  on  the  contrary,  delighted  in  the  regular  exercise 
again.  Much  had  happened  in  his  absence.  Fields  were 
cleared,  stubble  ploughed  in,  and  most  things  prepared  for 
winter  rest.  He  was  free  now  to  enjoy  the  book.  At  Mrs. 
Plumtre's  there  had  been  no  time,  although  he  had  care- 
fully packed  it  in  his  bundle.  Now  he  returned  to  it  with 
keen  satisfaction.  The  reading,  at  present,  was  beyond  him, 
but  the  pictures  were  understandable. 

There  was  one  which  appealed  strongly  to  his  imagination. 
An  old  castle,  standing  high  on  a  mountain  side,  lone,  bare, 
grand  in  its  isolation;  a  very  setting  for  a  tale.  Jerry  peo- 
pled it  with  giants,  fairies,  knights,  and  all  the  fairy  folk  of 
the  stories.  There  were  other  pictures,  too,  which  he  knew 


Some  Odds  and  Ends  159 

were  places  belonging  to  the  castle.  A  great  hall,  full  of 
marvellous  things;  antlers  (Jerry  called  them  horns),  pictures, 
tall  dark  benches,  and  a  fireplace  so  big,  that  he  wondered  if 
they  could  ever  find  enough  sticks  to  fill  it.  In  front  lay  two 
dogs,  giving  it  a  touch  of  reality.  There  were  other  views, 
but  the  one  which  attracted  him  most  was  evidently  part  of  the 
gardens.  Lawns,  with  spreading  trees,  sloped  to  a  running 
stream,  and  on  one  was  assembled  a  group  of  people  who 
interested  Jerry  keenly.  A  tall  man,  dressed  in  a  funny  kind 
of  dress,  short-skirted  as  a  girl's,  with  strange  stockings  and 
something  thrown  round  him  like  a  shawl.  A  little  boy 
dressed  in  the  same  fashion  stood  by  him,  his  arm  round  a 
dog's  neck.  Jerry  decided  that  they  must  be  Indians.  A  lady 
sat  near,  probably  the  little  boy's  mother,  but  with  nothing 
very  remarkable  about  her.  Underneath  was  written  an  in- 
scription, and  carefully  spelling  it  out,  he  read,  "Lord  Ross  of 
Ardelimar  Castle,  with  his  wife,  and  son  and  heir,  Gervaise." 

Over  these  Jerry  pored  at  every  available  opportunity,  till 
he  had  pieced  the  pictures  together  and  made  a  whole,  which 
perhaps  differed  as  much  from  the  original  as  Ardelimar  Cas- 
tle did  from  Cloudesley  Hall. 

Life  was  growing  very  full  indeed  for  Jerry.  The  book 
only  formed  a  small  part.  There  was  work,  plenty  of  it,  as 
the  winter  broke;  and  work  meant  pennies,  even  shillings. 
Then  there  was  my  lady's  school,  and  here  also  was  so  much 
to  be  learned  that  Jerry's  head  fairly  buzzed. 

He  was  having  drawing  lessons.  Lady  Kezzy,  detecting 
a  budding  genius,  supplied  them,  also  materials,  and  the  small 
pupil  took  to  it  as  a  duck  takes  to  water.  Modelling  clay 
was  also  procured,  and  casts  which  grinned  at  him  while 
they  eluded  every  attempt  to  copy.  Jerry  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  be  master,  and  though  the  difficulty  was  so 
great,  each  effort  was  a  step  nearer.  One  day,  he  thought, 
they'll  have  to  give  in  and  let  me  copy  them. 

Then,  too,  a  letter  had  to  be  written  to  Margery.  His  writ- 
ing began  to  look  quite  grown  up,  and  when  at  last  the  letter 


160  When  Pan  Pipes 

was  closed  and  sealed  with  a  seal  borrowed  from  the  school, 
and  some  of  the  precious  pennies  spent  for  postage,  Jerry  be- 
gan to  feel  that  London  and  independence  were  indeed  loom- 
ing near. 

It  was  in  the  spring  time  that  a  change  came,  the  change 
which  was  but  the  first  of  many.  Ever  since  Jerry  had  lived 
in  the  cottage  he  had  been  used  to  hearing  the  widow's  name 
mentioned,  sometimes  with  a  mysterious  smile  or  a  half  laugh. 
At  first  it  had  heightened  his  suspicions  that  she  was  a  witch, 
but  latterly,  since  commonsense  told  him  that  that  was  but 
a  fancy  belonging  to  his  childish  days,  he  had  sometimes  won- 
dered what  was  the  reason.  It  may  be  added  as  a  slight  de- 
tail that  the  old  lurking  doubts  sometimes  revived,  at  night 
for  instance,  or  when  the  broomstick  was  absent  from  the 
cupboard,  more  particularly  in  that  silent  hour  when  he  sat  on 
his  three-legged  stool  modelling  clay,  while  the  widow  dozed 
and  all  the  inanimate  things  came  alive. 

One  Monday  afternoon  Jerry  came  home  from  work.  He 
changed  his  heavy  boots  for  thinner  ones — the  widow  allowed 
no  dirt  in  her  house,  and  Margery's  teachings  still  lingered — 
had  his  tea,  and  took  up  his  usual  position.  The  widow  fin- 
ished her  washing  up  and  subsided  into  the  red-cushioned 
chair.  Jerry  worked  on,  then  suddenly  became  conscious  that 
all  was  not  as  usual.  Nothing  had  woke  up,  and  glancing 
quickly  round,  he  found  that  the  widow's  blue  eyes  were  open 
and  watching  him.  It  was  embarrassing,  bringing  back  mem- 
ories of  that  bitter  time  so  long  ago.  Too  polite,  however,  to 
say  anything,  he  went  on  with  his  work  till  supper  time.  The 
next  evening  was  the  same.  On  the  third  the  widow  spoke. 

"Is  it  a  bowl  you're  making,  child?"  He  said  it  was,  and 
politely  showed  her  the  wonderful  curves  and  hollows,  so 
beautiful  yet  so  difficult  of  achievement.  How  much  the 
widow  understood  was  doubtful,  but  she  creased  and  un- 
creased  her  cheeks  and  mouth,  and  nodded  many  times,  still 
watching.  On  the  next  two  nights  it  was  the  same,  till  Jerry 


Some  Odds  and  Ends  161 

began  to  wonder  if  some  wakeful  imp  possessed  her.  On  the 
Saturday  came  the  explanation. 

"Little  boy."  Jerry  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  hesitation, 
also  at  a  certain  something  in  the  voice.  Something  softer, 
more  thoughtful,  even  intelligent. 

She  sat  forward,  grasping  both  arms  of  the  chair,  and, 
gazing  into  the  fire,  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"I  dunno  rightly  how  to  tell  you,  an'  that's  the  truth." 
Jerry  dropped  his  modelling  and  stared.  Mrs.  Hagges  re- 
moved her  glance  from  the  fire  and  looked  sheepishly  down- 
wards. Never  had  Jerry  beheld  so  many  creases.  On  the 
ample  spread  of  gown  before  her  she  drew  patterns  with  a 
fat  forefinger.  Presently  she  spoke  again,  in  a  would-be 
coquettish  tone. 

"What  would  you  say,  little  boy,  if  I  told  you  I  was  agoin' 
to  git  married  again?"  In  moments  of  excitement  the  widow's 
polished  accents  were  apt  to  lose  themselves. 

"Get  married!"  gasped  Jerry.  It  was  beyond  conception. 
Sally  or  Nanny  might,  probably  would  do  so,  but  an  old  woman, 
and  an  ugly  old  woman,  he  told  himself.  "Get  married!"  he 
repeated  stupidly.  She  nodded  coyly. 

"  'Tan't  anything  after  all  to  be  surprised  at.  I'm  only 
thirty-five,  or  thereabouts."  Mrs.  Chubbe  might  have  disputed 
the  fact,  but  to  Jerry,  thirty-five  was  much  the  same  as  seventy- 
five. 

"There's  Hester  Dyke,  up  at  the  village  there — "  with  a 
jerk  towards  the  window,  "a'most  as  old  as  me,  an'  never 
wed  before,  an'  she's  got  married,  an'  a  fine  figure  of  a  man 
is  he." 

The  comparison  was  not,  to  Jerry's  mind,  favourable  to  the 
bride  elect.  He  rather  liked  Hester  Dyke ;  she  had  often  asked 
him  to  go  and  see  her,  and  the  widow  always  had  some  rea- 
son against  it  ready.  But  Hester  never  passed  him  without 
stooping  and  kissing  him,  thereby  adding  another  to  her  train 
of  admirers;  and  the  worship  of  a  small  boy  for  beauty  far 


162  When  Pan  Pipes 

exceeds  that  of  many  an  older  man.  He  turned  matters  over. 
If  Mrs.  Hagges  were  really  going  to  get  married,  why — nat- 
urally some  one  else  was  about  to  do  the  same  thing." 

" Wh — who — are  you  going  to  marry,  m'am  ?"  he  stammered 
out  at  length.  The  widow  hung  a  bashful  head. 

"Why,  child,  his  name's  Simeon,  which,  though  it's  out  o' 
the  Bible,  ain't  a  very  pretty  name.  But  there — you  can't  have 
everything.  Simeon — Simeon  Padclen,"  she  repeated  musingly. 
Jerry's  heart  sank.  He  knew  the  long,  black-coated  figure 
slightly,  and,  with  a  child's  true  instinct,  disliked  its  owner. 
The  minister's  would-be  dulcet  tones,  the  touch  of  his  lank, 
kid-gloved  fingers  on  Jerry's  head  were  disagreeable,  almost 
repulsive.  Quickly  the  little  brain  worked,  framing  a  ques- 
tion. 

"Will  you  live  at  Mr.  Bray's,  m'am  ?"  She  tossed  her  head 
disdainfully.  Even  a  worm  has  instincts,  and  there  had  been 
enmity  between  Harriet  Hagges  and  Hester  Bray. 

"La,  no,  child.  He'll  come  here.  It's  not  far  from  Meetin' 
House,  an'  I'll  lay  he'll  be  a  sight  more  comfortable  than 
George  Bray  can  make  him.  Pork  an'  beans  for  his  dinner, 
an'  cold  for  his  supper — an'  that's  all  he  or  Hester  know  about 
a  man's  stomach.  No,  no,  he'll  be  better  here ;  an'  I  couldn't 
leave  the  cottage,  I've  lived  in  it  since  I  was  first  married, 
an'  that's  twenty-five  years  come  June  next."  Which  was 
curious  when  compared  with  another  statement.  There  was 
a  silence.  Another  question  was  trying  to  frame  itself  in 
Jerry's  mind,  but  it  did  not  get  beyond  a  few  hesitating  words. 

"And— and— when?" 

"When  will  it  be?"  Mrs.  Hagges  finished  the  sentence. 
"Well,  'twon't  be  yet  awhile.  Though  if  I  did  but  say  the 
word  'twould  be  to-day.  Only  last  Sunday  he  says,  'Harriet, 
name  the  happy  day/  But  there's  a  new  rug  to  be  made,  an' 
the  chicks  comin'  on,  an'  the  potatoes  to  be  planted.  No, 
'twon't  be  till  summer,  nohow." 

Jerry  breathed ;  it  was  a  respite.  Margie,  of  course,  would 
be  back  then,  and  they  would  live  together  with  the  pigs  and 


Some  Odds  and  Ends  163 

chickens  till  he  was  twelve,  which  was  not  for  nearly  two 
years.  And  then,  hey,  for  London  City  and  all  its  wonders! 

"And  now,"  said  the  widow,  sitting  back,  "don't  ask  me 
any  more  questions." 

She  put  her  head  against  the  cushion ;  Jerry  returned  to  his 
modelling,  his  head  full  of  new  ideas.  In  a  moment  the  si- 
lence fell  and  the  inanimate  things  woke  up.  Oh,  how  they 
grinned  and  jeered!  They  had  been  listening,  no  doubt,  and 
Jerry  felt  almost  inclined  to  join  with  them. 

Mr.  Padden  confined  his  courting  to  Sundays.  He  had 
never  visited  the  cottage  on  week  days,  and  neither  he  nor 
the  widow  saw  any  reason  for  altering  arrangements.  So 
that,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  things  went  on  in  the  same  way. 

In  its  monotony,  time  flew.  Morning  after  morning  Jerry 
woke  wondering  if  the  day  would  bring  Margery's  letter, 
night  after  night  he  went  to  bed  wondering  why  it  had  not. 
Didn't  Margery  love  him  any  more,  or  was  she  sorry  she 
had  promised  to  come  back?  Mrs.  Chubbe  suggested  that  she 
was  married,  but  her  husband  shook  his  head,  and  when  Jerry 
left  the  room,  pursed  up  his  lips  and  whispered  a  grim  word. 

"Nonsense,"  said  his  wife,  turning  nevertheless  a  shade 
paler.  "Ill  news  travels  fast.  We  should  have  heard.  Mark 
my  words,  Matthew,  something's  happened  to  prevent  her 
writing.  Some  fine  day  she'll  turn  up."  But  Mr.  Chubbe  still 
shook  his  head. 

Over  the  hills  and  into  the  woods  crept  Spring  again.  Nights 
grew  warm  and  short;  Church  Clock  only  struck  five  dark 
hours;  north  wind  and  east  wind  shouted  round  him  till  one 
day  west  wind  and  south  wind  drove  them  laughing  away. 
But  Church  Clock's  face  was  grave  that  day.  In  vain  did  the 
merry  winds  play  about  his  tower.  Grave,  too,  was  the  bril- 
liant yellow  face  which  rose  beside  him  that  summer  night, 
grave  and  cloudy. 

"Church  Clock,  Church  Clock,"  it  cried,  "are  you  still  watch- 
ing?" 


"Still  watching,  friend,"  came  the  quiet  answer. 


164  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Ah,  then  you  don't  know — you  don't  know." 

Church  Clock  turned  his  grave  face. 

"I  know,  friend,  I  know.  The  prairie  grass  rustled  and 
whispered  it  to  the  east  wind;  east  wind  told  south  wind, 
and  hand  in  hand  they  told  it  to  me." 

"But  I  saw  it,"  cried  the  Moon,  "I  saw  it,  Church  Clock. 
Oh,  listen — listen,  while  I  tell  you.  Last  night  I  rose  across 
the  seas.  Fair  rolled  the  wide  prairie  under  my  silver  light. 
A  little  band  of  pioneers  had  made  their  camp;  they  were 
going  north  to  a  friendly  tribe  with  whom  they  hoped  to 
trade.  The  tribe  had  sent  an  escort,  but  it  was  not  strong 
enough.  Even  as  I  rose,  among  the  -  high  grass  came  the 
flutter  of  feathers,  the  glint  of  spear  heads.  Ah,  Church 
Clock,  Church  Clock,  how  can  I  tell  it?  They  killed  the 
men  and  took  the  women  captive.  And  the  children,  little 
ones  like  those  sleeping  yonder — "  He  buried  his  face  in  a 
passing  cloud,  and  for  a  space  there  was  silence.  Church 
Clock  ticked  slowly  on,  then  struck  the  hour. 

"Be  cheered,  friend,"  he  said;  "they,  too,  sleep — dream- 
less, happy  sleep.  Mother  earth  bore  them,  and  sooner  or 
later  all  things  return  to  her  brown  bosom.  They  shall  come 
again,  even  as  all  things  come  again.  They  but  rest  awhile." 

"But  Margery — oh,  Church  Clock,  what  of  Margery  and 
Jean?"  Church  Clock  paused  before  answering. 

"It's  hard,  friend,  it's  hard.  Yet  it  will  pass,  as  all  things 
pass." 

"But  it  leaves  marks,  Church  Clock." 

"Aye — it  leaves  marks.  Nature  works  by  cruelty.  Only 
love  dares  to  fight  against  it.  And  the  two  for  ever  wage  war 
against  each  other." 

"And  who  is  the  stronger?"  asked  the  Moon  eagerly. 
Gravely,  solemnly,  answered  Church  Clock: 

"Love,  friend.  For  love  is  stronger  than  anything.  Love 
governs  the  world.  Margery  will  come  back,  for  love  will 
draw  her.  And  Jean  will  pass  behind  the  curtain  to  where 


Some  Odds  and  Ends  165 

love  waits.     Dost  understand,  friend  ?"    And  the  Moon,  emerg- 
ing from  a  bank  of  dark  clouds,  shone  brilliantly. 

"I  understand,  Church  Clock,"  he  whispered;  "I  under- 
stand." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   MINISTER  COMES  TO  THE  COTTAGE  AND  THE  KNIGHT 
RIDES  AWAY 

THE  widow  never  alluded  to  her  love  affair  again.  Jerry 
sometimes  wondered  if  he  had  dreamt  it  all.  There  was 
nothing  to  show  the  contrary.  But  it  was  no  dream.  One 
late  summer  afternoon  the  widow  met  him  at  the  garden  gate. 
It  was  unusual,  but  Jerry,  wholly  unsuspicious  of  the  real  cause, 
thought  perhaps  Margery's  long  looked- for  letter  had  arrived. 
She  wore  her  Sunday  dress  of  grey,  the  red  ribbon  fluttering 
gaily  at  her  throat,  her  face  was  very  creasy,  and  the  double 
chins  seemed  to  convey  an  extraordinary  feeling  of  satisfaction 
and  well-being.  She  beckoned  with  a  fat  forefinger,  and  whis- 
pered mysteriously: 

"Tea's  in  the  parlour  to-night,  there's  hot  cakes ;  an'  some- 
one's in  the  kitchen." 

Margery — oh,  how  Jerry's  heart  beat.  He  flew — opened  the 
kitchen  door  with  a  face  of  beaming  delight,  and  there,  in 
the  centre  of  the  new  cloth  rug,  stood  a  long,  black-coated 
figure.  In  the  hideous  reaction,  the  child's  mind  refused  to 
work,  the  room  swam  before  him,  and  only  the  repulsive  touch 
of  those  thin  bony  fingers  on  his  head  recalled  him  to  his 
surroundings.  The  minister  turned  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes, 
and  extending  the  remaining  hand  towards  the  ceiling,  began 
a  ranting  tirade  which  the  occasion  warranted.  When,  to- 
wards the  end,  he  advanced  and  would  have  embraced  him, 
Jerry  recoiled. 

"Father — lovely  word!  Child — "  he  placed  his  hands  on 
Jerry's  shoulders  and  gazed  with  devout  fervour  into  the 

166 


The  Cottage  167 

little  upturned  face,  "let  me  hear  that  word.  Say  after  me, 
'Father.'  "  Jerry  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,  but  you  see  I  couldn't  call  you  father, 
because  my  real  father's  gone  away,  and  you  are  not  my  fa- 
ther." 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  something  crept  into  the  black 
eyes,  something  sinister,  evil,  and  as  Jerry  shrank  back,  it 
was  gone.  He  moved  away.  The  minister  smiled,  then  sighed 
deeply. 

"Alas!  some  day — "  he  clasped  his  hands  together,  lifting 
them  high,  "some  day — "  He  broke  off  as  his  wife  entered, 
bashfully  beaming,  and  flew  to  her  side  with  all  a  lover's 
ardour  while  she  drew  the  cakes  from  the  oven.  Holding 
the  dish  before  her,  much  in  the  fashion  of  a  sacrifice,  she  led 
the  way ;  the  minister  followed  gesticulating,  and  Jerry  brought 
up  the  rear.  The  meal  was  superb;  never  had  Jerry  seen 
such  a  spread,  and  the  newly-married  couple  did  full  justice 
to  it.  There  were  interruptions,  it  is  true.  The  minister, 
every  now  and  then  would  catch  the  plump  fingers  in  his, 
carrying  them  to  his  mouth,  playfully  pretending  to  bite  them. 
The  widow — never  would  Cloudesley  bring  its  tongue  to  call 
her  by  any  other  name — retorted  archly,  "Get  along  wi'  you — 
do."  Sometimes  this  was  accompanied  by  a  sportive  box  on 
the  ears,  provocative  of  further  gallantries.  Jerry  kept  his 
eyes  on  his  plate.  It  was  not  amusing,  and  certainly  very 
silly.  He  ate  his  tea,  scornfully  superior,  yet  with  the  un- 
comfortable embarrassment  of  a  child  who  sees  its  elders  be- 
have in  an  undignified  manner. 

He  grew  used  to  it,  even  to  the  occupation  of  the  arm- 
chair by  two  instead  of  one.  No  longer  did  the  widow  doze 
peacefully.  There  were  whisperings,  pauses,  and  more  whis- 
perings, and  Jerry  missed  the  quiet  hour.  No  longer  did  the 
inanimate  things  awake,  no  longer  did  Tibbie  wear  the  in- 
scrutable expression  of  a  witch's  cat.  In  fact,  to  a  certain 
extent,  the  air  of  mystery  was  gone  from  the  house.  The 
minister  made  work.  There  was  mending  and  darning,  to 


168  When  Pan  Pipes 

say  nothing  of  extra  dainties  to  be  prepared.  The  widow 
showed  herself  in  new  lights.  Active  she  never  was,  but  the 
comfortable,  leisurely  tread  disappeared.  There  was  hurry  in 
it  now — much  to  be  done, '  and  very  little  time  to  do  it  in. 
Mr.  Padden  came  punctually  to  his  meals,  and  the  widow 
strained  every  nerve  to  be  ready.  The  loud,  unpleasant  voice 
lifted  itself  continually  in  grace,  prayers,  or  general  rhapso- 
dizing. How  Jerry  hated  it!  He  counted  the  months  to  his 
twelfth  birthday — twenty  months,  a  lifetime.  It  was  unfor- 
tunate, too,  that  it  came  in  November.  He  would  so  much 
rather  have  started  in  the  early  dawn  of  a  summer  morning. 
The  new  state  of  things  at  the  cottage  soon  began  to  be  an 
old  state,  so  quickly  does  habit  adapt  itself.  And  then  again, 
gradually,  imperceptibly,  till  it  was  accomplished,  came  another1 
change. 

The  minister  developed  a  cold.  The  widow  abdicated  from 
the  red-cushioned  chair,  and  the  quiet  hour  was  devoted  to 
strong  mustard  and  water,  hot  gruel,  and  linseed  poultices. 
The  ailment  lasted  several  days,  and  the  widow's  heavy  feet 
toiled  wearily  up  and  down  stairs,  from  kitchen  to  back'us 
again.  After  a  few  days  the  cold  mended,  and  the  minister 
went  about  his  business  as  usual.  The  event  marked  an  epoch. 
The  days  were  lengthening;  duty  called  Mr.  Padden,  and  he 
tore  himself  away. 

But  it  was  not  duty;  the  few  days  spent  without  seeing 
Hester  Dyke  had  developed  the  old  liking  into  something 
warmer.  She  was  lost  to  him,  and,  as  usual,  the  desire  for 
a  thing  grows  in  proportion  to  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  it. 
Knowing  her  power,  she  kept  him  at  arm's  length,  yet  always 
with  a  suggestion  of  relaxation  postponed.  The  dulness  of 
the  cottage  and  his  wife,  palled  upon  a  restless,  uncontrolled 
nature,  and  the  minister  took  to  spending  his  days  away — 
where,  he  alone  knew.  The  widow  asked  no  questions,  but 
once  more  occupied  the  armchair  in  solitary  comfort,  and  Jerry, 
on  the  three-legged  stool,  looked  for  old  times.  In  vain.  She 
never  slept  again ;  her  eyes  sought  the  clock,  her  ears  listened 


The  Cottage  169 

to  catch  the  faintest  sound,  for  at  any  time  the  minister  was 
liable  to  return  and  demand  a  meal.  The  peace  of  the  cottage 
was  gone,  and  Jerry  grew  to  realise  that  calm  monotony  had 
distinct  advantages.  Also  a  strange  note  crept  into  the  atmos- 
phere already  tuned  to  a  different  key,  the  note  of  fear,  al- 
though it  was  not  for  many  weeks  that  he  recognised  it. 

As  the  summer  came  nearer,  the  minister's  absences  grew 
more  and  more  prolonged.  There  were  days  when  he  only 
came  in  for  his  dinner  and  supper.  Yet  at  times  he  would 
hardly  stir  from  the  house,  and  it  was  at  those  times  that 
the  widow's  face  wore  a  different  expression.  It  hardly  ever 
creased  and  uncreased  nowadays,  and  sometimes,  to  Jerry's 
childish  mind,  it  seemed  to  be  smaller,  less  florid,  and  the  blue, 
lack-lustre  eyes  even  duller  and  more  aqueous. 

That  summer  the  geese  looked  after  themselves.  Betty  was 
getting  a  big  girl,  her  aunt  said,  and  must  go  to  school  all 
day ;  Jerry,  too,  was  worthy  of  better  work. 

He  was  at  his  old  occupation,  digging  potatoes,  one  autumn 
morning.  In  the  distance  a  plough  was  making  its  way  across 
a  field,  the  fresh  brown  earth  contrasting  with  the  pale,  un- 
ploughed  stubble.  The  trees,  half  naked,  showed  lacy  outlines 
against  a  thin  blue  sky,  white-clouded.  Beech  woods  sur- 
rounding the  Hall  were  rich  in  gold  and  red,  and  cabbage 
fields,  in  the  near  distance,  changed,  gleamed  iridescently,  like 
great  scales  of  a  giant  fish. 

Jerry,  as  usual,  worked  contentedly,  filled  with  the  beauty 
of  the  day  and  all  sorts  of  speculations  as  to  the  glorious 
future  drawing  so  near.  Something  entered  into  his  thoughts, 
something  unpleasant,  causing,  what  Mrs.  Chubbe  called,  "a 
wet  blankety  feeling."  Raising  his  head  he  knew  the  cause. 
The  minister,  passing,  had  seen  him,  and  now  lifted  the  wooden 
gate  and  turned  in.  Jerry  worked  on,  conscious  that  the  black 
figure  was  approaching — had  reached  him,  and  was  watching. 

Still  he  kept  on,  vaguely  determined  that  his  visitor  should 
be  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  For  some  minutes  he  worked 
steadily  down  the  row,  digging  and  lifting  out  the  earthy 


170  When  Pan  Pipes 

masses,  shaking  them  till  the  brown  potatoes  were  free  to  be 
cast  on  the  stacked  heap.  Mr.  Padden  followed  him;  the 
unctuous  smile  was  on  his  lips,  but  the  blazing  eyes  were  dulled 
to  commonplace;  he  was  there  for  a  purpose.  Presently  he 
spoke. 

"Boy — for  what  does  man  work?"  Jerry  raised  himself, 
spade  in  hand,  slightly  puzzled  by  the  question,  but  ascribing 
it  to  the  minister's  usual  speech. 

"I  expect  people  work  to  keep  their  families.  Mr.  Chubbe 
does,  an'  I  work  'cos  I  like  it,  an'  'cos  I  want  to  get  money." 
Mr.  Padden  fell  back;  he  was  not  used  to  direct  answers. 
Still  smiling  suavely,  he  looked  down  at  the  sturdy  figure,  and 
Jerry  started,  in  such  contrast  was  the  cold  evil  look  behind 
the  thin  smiling  lips.  It  vanished  so  quickly  that  he  wondered 
if  it  had  ever  been  there. 

"Aye,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure."  Then  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"Alas,  that  it  should  be  so;  that  man  should  work  for  no 
higher  reward  than  useless  dross.  Still — since  you  desire  such 
paltry  recompense — this  yellow  gold  you  prize,  I  trust  you  may 
find  it.  I  bear  you  no  ill-feeling."  Then,  dropping  his  tone  to 
a  confidential  one :  "Does  the  worthy  farmer  compensate  you 
sufficiently  for  this  arduous  toil,  this  labour  in  his  vineyard?" 
Jerry  nodded;  something  seemed  to  be  rising  in  him,  and  he 
knew  he  must  be  careful.  Just  at  that  moment  he  felt  that 
he  hated  the  minister  more  than  anything  in  the  wide  world. 

"Mr.  Chubbe  pays  me  a  lot,"  he  said,  and  the  listener  smiled 
patronisingly. 

"Ah,  youth,  youth!  To  whom  a  shilling  is  wealth,  a  sov- 
ereign the  mines  of  Golconda!  And  what  do  you  call  a  lot?" 
he  asked  softly.  Jerry  answered  shortly. 

"A  shilling  a  week."    The  minister  threw  up  his  hands. 

"Truly  the  eyes  of  youth  are  large."  He  turned,  still  with 
the  insinuating  smile,  which  irritated  Jerry  almost  beyond 
endurance.  "What  do  you  do  with  this  great  wealth,  child?" 

"I  give  it  to  Farmer  Chubbe." 


The  Cottage  171 

"Good — good."  The  minister  rubbed  two  thin  hands  to- 
gether, then  stole  nearer  Jerry,  and  placing  both  on  his  shoul- 
ders, sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"Ungrateful  boy !  Well,  well  has  it  been  said,  'How  sharper 
than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is,  to  have  a  thankless  child/  "  Jerry 
stared;  although  by  this  time  accustomed  to  the  minister's 
ranting,  he  wondered  why  he  was  chosen  for  audience.  After 
a  minute's  gesticulating  and  groaning,  Mr.  Padden  assumed 
a  parental  tone  of  mild  reproof. 

"No  doubt  it  is  through  ignorance  that  you  have  committed 
this  outrage.  Did  you  never  think  of  her  who  has  been  a 
mother  to  you,  who  has  clothed  and  fed  you,  warmed  you, 
supplied  from  her  scanty  stores  your  needs?  And  yet,"  the 
voice  rose  shriller,  "you  do  not  trust  her.  You  give  your 
worldly  goods  into  another's  keeping — one  to  whom  you  are 
but  a  hireling,  who  may  at  any  time  be  called  from  this  world. 
And,  though  he  cannot  take  your  pittance  with  him,  yet  so 
small  a  thing  might  be  swallowed  in  the  bigger  sums."  Jerry 
listened — bewildered. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  ought  to  give  my  wages  to  Mrs. 
Hagges?"  The  name  slipped  out  unnoticed.  The  minister 
groaned  deeply  and  inclined  his  head. 

"Oh,  but  I  couldn't  do  that,"  cried  Jerry,  in  eager  distress. 
"You  see,  Mr.  Chubbe's  been  so  kind  to  me.  He  always  adds 
something  to  it."  Again  the  minister  groaned,  and  shook  his 
head  dolefully. 

"Alas !"  he  began  in  a  tone  of  mourning,  "must  I  then  re- 
turn and  tell  her  that  she  must  suffer?  That  the  child  she 
cherishes  is  false?"  He  paused;  between  bewilderment  and 
troubled  wonder,  Jerry's  face  was  a  study.  The  minister 
watched  warily — then  sighed,  and  half  turned. 

"I  go,  unhappy  messenger  of  ill.  Ah,  well — so  be  it.  'Tis 
nature."  Slowly  he  moved  further,  yet  still  watching  Jerry's 
troubled  face.  Presently  it  cleared,  and  he  spoke. 

"If  you  like,  if  you  really  think  I've  vexed  Mrs.  Hagges, 


172  When  Pan  Pipes 

I'll  ask  Mr.  Chubbe."  The  minister  smiled  sweetly  and  stepped 
near  again. 

"Nay,  nay,  child,  obey  the  dictates  of  your  own  heart;  it 
will  respond  to  a  noble  impulse.  Bring  your  savings;  lay 
them  at  the  feet  of  her  who  loves  you.  She  will  guard  them 
as  she  has  guarded  you."  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder,  lifted  the  other  in  benediction,  sighed,  groaned,  smiled 
benevolently,  and  at  length  betook  himself  on  his  way. 

Jerry  breathed  again.  Yet  all  the  glory  of  the  day  had 
vanished;  work  had  lost  its  zest,  and  he  was  sorely  troubled 
in  mind.  Had  he  hurt  the  widow's  feelings  after  trying  so 
hard  to  be  always  gentle?  Did  Mr.  Chubbe  really  only  think 
of  him  as  a  little  servant  ?  The  tears  started  in  Jerry's  brown 
eyes.  If  it  were  really  so,  why,  of  course,  he  would  willingly 
hand  over  the  savings,  and  forego  the  bonus ;  though  he  thought 
of  it  with  a  pang. 

He  hardly  saw  the  minister  before  Saturday  and  the  widow 
showed  no  sign  of  emotional  disturbance.  When  the  farmer 
paid  him  as  usual,  being  extra  busy,  the  fact  that  Jerry  took 
the  money  went  unnoticed.  The  widow  was  baking  cakes 
when  he  returned,  bustling  in  and  out  in  a  breathless  hurry. 
It  was  not  until  the  crisp,  brown  buns  were  lifted  from  their 
tins,  and  the  larger  cakes  put  in,  that  she  found  time  to 
drop  into  the  armchair,  wipe  her  hot  face,  and  adjust  the 
front ;  Jerry  took  the  opportunity. 

"If  you  please,  m'am,  I'm  very  sorry  indeed;  I  can't  tell 
you  how  sorry  I  am."  The  widow  stared  in  amazement. 

"What's  the  matter,  child?"  then  suddenly  she  started  for- 
ward with  an  agitated  look.  "Odds  drabbit,  boy,  you  haven't 
broken  the  best  teapot?"  Jerry  hastened  to  reassure  her,  and 
she  sank  back  relieved,  mopping  her  forehead,  and  fanning 
herself  with  her  pocket  handkerchief. 

He  tried  again. 

"You  see,  m'am,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  ungrateful."  The 
handkerchief  dropped,  as  the  widow  listened  wonderingly. 


The  Cottage  173 

"But  he  said  you  thought  I  was  unkind,  so,  please,  I've  brought 
it  this  week.  And  will  you  please  save  it  for  me?" 

"What  is  it,  child?"  She  stared  at  the  silver  in  the  brown 
palm.  "I  can't  be  bothered  with  your  money !" 

It  was  Jerry's  turn  to  look. 

"But  I  thought —  The  minister  said  you  were  vexed  be- 
cause Mr.  Chubbe  kept  my  money.  He  thought  you  ought  to 
keep  it.  And  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I'll  always  bring  it  now." 
The  widow's  face  changed  as  he  spoke.  Bewilderment  turned 
to  understanding,  understanding  to  a  look  of  consternation, 
and  then  came  fear.  She  sat  forward,  and  drew  Jerry  near. 

"Don't  you  give  me  the  money,"  she  whispered,  "I  don't 
want  it.  But — "  The  grasp  tightened  on  Jerry's  wrist,  the 
blue  eyes  wore  a  strained  look,  and  he  had  to  stoop  to  catch 
her  words.  "You're  a  good  little  boy,  I've  always  said  so; 
an'  you  won't  tell  him,  him  out  there — "  she  jerked  her  head 
towards  the  lane,  "that  I  told  you,  will  you  ?" 

She  waited  breathlessly. 

"No,  m'am,"  said  Jerry. 

"Tell  him  you've  made  up  your  mind  not  to  give  it  to  me. 
Tell  him  you're  afraid  I  might  lose  it,  or — or — take  it.  Will 
you?"  And  again  Jerry  assented.  It  was  all  very  strange; 
he  could  not  understand;  but  the  widow's  anxiety  impressed 
itself  upon  him,  and  when  he  next  met  Mr.  Padden  alone, 
he  put  on  a  brave  front  and  told  his  determination. 

Well  for  Jerry  that  the  minister's  face  was  turned  from 
him.  The  look  on  it  might  have  daunted  an  older  boy,  but 
he  made  little  comment  beyond  a  rambling  invective  against 
ingratitude,  love  of  money,  and  want  of  trust.  And  on  the 
following  Saturday  Jerry  returned  his  money  to  the  usual 
banker,  who,  probably  thinking  it  forgotten  before,  took  it 
without  a  word,  and  so  the  incident  passed. 

As  the  autumn  went  by  the  widow  changed  visibly.  The 
portly  figure  grew  thin,  the  rounded  cheeks  fell  in  arid  hung 
in  flabby  folds.  They  were  quite  incapable  of  creasing  or  un- 


174  When  Pan  Pipes 

creasing  now.  One  by  one  the  comfortable  double  chins  dis- 
appeared, and  the  plump  hands  showed  wrinkles,  even  knuckles 
pushed  themselves  into  sight.  She  still  baked  and  cleaned  at 
high  pressure.  There  was  always  a  good  meal  ready  when 
her  lord  and  master  chose  to  arrive.  She  only  occupied  the 
armchair  now  when  she  and  Jerry  were  alone.  The  minister 
claimed  it  as  his  right ;  but  on  Sunday  afternoons,  though  Jerry 
was  not  there  to  see,  all  the  kitchen  furniture  came  alive. 
For  on  that  day  Mr.  Padden  slept  in  the  front  room,  and  the 
widow,  her  dishes  washed,  stole  an  hour  from  the  past,  and 
dozed  peacefully  in  the  red-cushioned  chair. 

A  child  floats  innocently  in  troubled  waters,  only  vaguely 
conscious  of  discomforts.  Looking  back  from  the  vantage 
point  of  a  grown-up,  Jerry  wondered  how  he  could  have  been 
blind  so  long.  All  the  village  knew,  or  guessed.  Mrs.  Chubbe 
asked  a  great  many  questions,  then  pursed  up  her  lips  and 
shook  her  head  mysteriously  at  her  husband.  Betty,  all  agog 
for  exciting  gossip,  and,  womanlike,  much  quicker  at  piecing 
it  together,  informed  Jerry  that  "Aunt  Martha  says  the  min- 
ister wants  Mrs.  Hagges's  money,  and  Uncle  Matt  says  she 
was  an  old  fool  to  get  married.  But  I  don't  know  why,  Jerry," 
wrinkling  up  the  black  brows  in  a  perplexed  manner ;  "I  think 
she  was  quite  right,  and  I'm  sure  the  minister's  very  nice. 
Isn't  he?" 

Jerry  disagreed,  but  evaded  the  question.  He  didn't  like 
the  minister,  but  he  was  sure  Mr.  Chubbe  was  wrong.  Had 
he  not  wanted  Mrs.  Hagges  to  take  charge  of  Jerry's  own 
money? 

That  winter  he  really  felt  as  though  he  were  growing  up. 
In  a  few  more  months  he  would  be  twelve.  The  golden  fu- 
ture hung  dazzling  before  him,  and  his  heart  leapt  as  he 
thought  of  it.  The  shillings  were  accumulating.  What  a  lot 
there  must  be,  he  sometimes  thought;  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  exact  count.  He  talked  it  over  with  Paul,  though,  strange 
to  say,  he  never  mentioned  it  to  Betty.  Paul  kept  the  secret. 


The  Cottage  175 

He,  too,  had  begun  to  dream  of  his  future,  but  it  was  a  future 
further  afield  than  Jerry's.  The  next  few  years  were  mapped 
out  for  him,  and  spring  brought  a  change.  Betty  coming 
home  from  school  one  afternoon  saw  him  hurrying  towards 
her. 

"Come  into  the  woods,  Betty,"  he  said  excitedly,  taking  her 
books  from  her,  "I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

They  turned  across  the  meadows  towards  the  belt  of  trees 
beyond,  unconscious  of  aught  but  each  other.  Mrs.  Chubbe, 
from  a  window,  saw  them  pass,  and  stopped  in  the  midst  of 
her  sewing  with  a  curious  expression,  half  pride,  half  per- 
plexity. The  pride  was  justified.  Betty  had  grown  tall;  the 
girlish  form  showed  no  ugly  irregularities.  Slight,  graceful, 
thin,  it  promised  future  beauty.  The  long  bright  curls  tum- 
bled over  her  shoulders,  and  as  she  lifted  her  face  to  Paul's, 
the  dark,  deeply  fringed  eyes  shone  in  response  to  something 
he  said.  Mrs.  Chubbe  sighed  and  puckered  her  forehead. 
Then,  as  they  passed  out  of  sight,  caught  snappishly  at  the  work 
and  stitched  vigorously.  Her  thoughts  also  moved  in  the  fu- 
ture. The  girl  and  boy  walked  soberly  across  the  field. 

"What  were  you  going  to  tell  me,  Paul?"  asked  Betty  ex- 
citedly. "Was  it  about  the  belt?"  For  Paul  had  promised 
as  a  birthday  present  a  certain  buckle  which  he  had  seen  in 
London.  He  looked  into  the  beautiful  face,  so  full  of  vivacity 
and  eager  interest.  An  onlooker  might  have  been  almost  more 
struck  by  his  own.  Features  too  clearly  cut  for  pure  English, 
skin  olive  brown,  and  black  hair  pushed  back  from  a  thin 
oval  face,  in  whose  dark  eyes  every  emotion  of  their  owner's 
was  reflected.  They  were  smiling  now.  "The  buckle's  com- 
ing, Bets,"  he  said.  "To-morrow,  I  expect."  She  laughed  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"Will  it  really  be  silver,  Paul  ?"  He  shook  his  head  gravely, 
and  her  face  dropped. 

"Oh !" 

"Silly  princess,"  he  cried  gaily,  pulling  her  curls  and  call- 


176  When  Pan  Pipes 

ing  her  by  the  name  she  loved,  "I  wouldn't  give  you  silver. 
It's — guess !"  She  shook  her  head  and  pouted,  the  tears  gath- 
ering in  her  eyes.  Paul  laughed. 

"Betty,  it's  a  gold  buckle.  With  little,  tiny,  crystal  stones. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  she  was  too  amazed  to  think 
at  all.  Then,  as  the  glorious  reality  dawned  upon  her,  she 
gasped — 

"Oh,  Paul,  do  you  really,  really  mean  it?"  He  nodded. 
"Oh,  you  dear!  you  dear!"  She  flung  her  arms  round  him, 
kissing  him  rapturously,  and  flew  off  to  dance  away  some  of 
the  wonder,  returning  breathless  and  panting. 

"And  will  it  really  come  to-morrow?  Oh,  I  shan't  sleep 
a  wink  to-night."  Then,  as  a  sudden  thought  seized  her, 
"Paul,  do  you  think  Aunt  Martha  will  let  me  wear  it?"  Again 
he  nodded  gravely. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  she  will,  because,  Betty — that's  what  I  really 
wanted  to  tell  you — I  shan't  be  here  your  next  birthday,  nor 
the  next." 

"Won't  be  here  ?"  The  dark  eyes  grew  wide  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"No,  I'm  going  away.  In  two  days  most  likely,  it's  all  been 
settled  so  quickly." 

"Going  away,"  repeated  Betty  blankly. 

"Yes.  My  father  thinks  I  ought  to  go  to  your  great  Eng- 
lish school,  and  in  the  holidays  we're  going  to  travel  and  see 
different  places.  I  think  it  will  be  very  nice,  but — "  He  hesi- 
tated and  glanced  at  her.  They  were  deep  in  the  woods  now, 
where  solitude  reigned.  He  drew  her  down  on  the  soft  mossy 
ground. 

"Betty,"  he  had  his  face  turned  from  her,  "I — I  wonder — " 
A  roguish  expression  took  possession  of  the  brilliant  eyes;  a 
little  smile  rippled  over  the  scarlet  lips.  Child  as  she  was, 
she  was  yet  woman  enough  to  read  his  thoughts.  Suddenly 
he  turned,  and  threw  away  the  tufts  of  moss  he  had  idly 
plucked. 


The  Cottage  177 

"Betty,  will  you  miss  me  very  much?  I  shall  you.  I  shall 
always  be  thinking  of  you,  and  wishing  you  were  with  us  when 
we're  in  strange  places."  Betty  grew  grave. 

"I  shall  miss  you,  Paul,  dreadfully."    He  seized  her  hand. 

"I  say,  Bets,  when  I  come  back  I  shall  be  nearly  a  man, 
and  you'll  be  nearly  grown  up.  Will  you  marry  me  then? 
You  won't  be  a  princess,  you  know,  but  you'll  be  a  countess. 
Will  you?  Promise  you  will.  Oh,  Betty,  do — do — promise." 
She  drew  provokingly  away  and  laughed.  Already  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  power  of  her  beauty  was  awakening  in  the 
child. 

"Oh,  Paul,  how  can  I  promise  such  a  silly  thing?  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  feel  like  then." 

"But,  Betty,"  he  pleaded,  "if  you  feel  as  you  do  now,  will 
you?  No — "  he  held  her  hand  tightly,  "I  shan't  let  you  go 
till  you  promise."  She  laughed  teasingly,  and  tried  to  with- 
draw it. 

"Let  me  go,  Paul.    You're  hurting  me." 

"Promise,  then." 

"Oh,  well — I  promise — perhaps,  I'll  see.  Now  let  me  go." 
Reluctantly  he  unloosed  the  little  hand. 

"Betty,  you  won't  forget,  will  you?"  Again  she  laughed, 
refusing  to  say  more.  Paul  waited,  watched  the  piquant 
changing  face,  then  suddenly  put  his  arms  round  her,  and 
drawing  her  close,  kissed  her  passionately.  Betty  was  furious. 
Crimson  with  rage,  hot  and  breathless,  yet  half  laughing,  she 
pulled  herself  away. 

"You  rude,  horrid  boy,"  she  cried.  "You're  as  bad  as — 
as — "  He  understood,  and  stopped  her. 

"No,  Betty,  I'm  not.  I  kiss  you  because  I  love  you.  He 
only  wanted  to  kiss  you  because — because — "  He  hesitated, 
finding  himself  in  unknown  depths. 

"Because?"  asked  naughty  Betty  innocently. 

"Because — oh,  Betty ! — because  you're  so  pretty." 

"Am  I?"  It  was  balm,  coming  from  Paul.  "After  all,  I 
think  I  do  like  you  a  little,  and — perhaps — if  I  don't  really  find 


178  When  Pan  Pipes 

a  prince — perhaps,  when  I'm  quite — quite — grown  up,  I'll 
marry  you,  Paul." 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his  till  they  reached  the  fields,  then 
dropped  it.  A  consciousness  of  keeping  this  secret  was  upon 
him.  It  was  too  beautiful  to  be  spoken  of,  even  Jerry  must 
not  be  told. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  knight  rode  away  carrying 
with  him  a  certain  hope,  a  glorious  dream  of  the  future. 
And  the  swineherd  watched  him  go.  He,  too,  had  his  secret 
hope,  his  goal.  Only  the  goose-girl's  future  was  dim.  A  veil 
hung  over  it,  a  thin,  misty  veil;  but  behind  it  lay  the  most 
wonderful  future  of  all,  the  future  which  is  unknown. 

So,  too,  Mrs.  Chubbe,  stitching  steadily,  wove  a  dream  of 
another  future,  a  dream  which  was  so  brightly  coloured,  so 
golden  hued,  that  she  rose,  and  putting  by  the  work,  vowed 
she  was  a  foolish  woman,  as  bad  as  a  girl  of  eighteen. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  THE  GOOSE-GIRL  CLIMBED  A  LADDER,  HOW  THE  FAIRY  GOD- 
MOTHER   MADE   THE   SWINEHERD  AN   OFFER,   AND   WHY 
HE   REJECTED  IT 

BETTY'S  birthday  had  slipped  into  past  things.  The  buckle 
was  now  worn  without  great  consciousness,  and  Mrs. 
Chubbe's  musings  resolved  themselves,  for  the  present,  into 
a  definite  form,  a  form  which,  to  use  her  own  phrase,  "set 
Cloudesley  by  the  ear."  Neighbours  shook  their  heads ;  those 
more  intimate,  remonstrated;  inferiors  tossed  their  heads  at 
such  presumption ;  even  the  farmer  occasionally  had  his  doubts. 
But  Mrs.  Chubbe  held  her  ground,  though,  in  spite  of  her  out- 
wardly undaunted  aspect,  there  was  a  horrible  inward  sink- 
ing, when  gossip,  having  spread  till  it  reached  the  ears  of  those 
in  authority,  the  high  slung  barouche  from  the  Hall  stopped 
one  morning  at  the  seldom  used  front  door  of  the  inn,  and 
my  Lady  Karen  stepped  out,  escorted  by  a  gorgeous  footman, 
who  knocked  vigorously,  and  departed  with  a  rueful  glance  at 
his  knuckles. 

Mrs.  Chubbe,  accompanied  by  Sally  and  the  farmer,  hastened 
lo  open,  and  with  many  creaks  and  groans,  the  heavy  oak  was 
set  back  and  my  lady  entered. 

"Good  morning,  Chubbe,"  she  said  graciously;  "good  morn- 
ing, Martha,"  and  the  graciousness  was  not  quite  so  gracious. 
"I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  on  a  certain  matter  which  has 
reached  my  ears."  Mrs.  Chubbe  curtseyed  again,  and  led  the 
way. 

"Will  you  step  into  the  kitchen,  my  lady,"  she  said,  inwardly 
shaking  with  dread  of  the  coming  interview.  She  drew  an 
armchair  to  the  fire,  but  my  lady  waved  it  aside. 

179 


180  When  Pan  Pipes 

"No,  thank  you,  Martha,  I  prefer  a  high-backed  one,  and 
not  so  near  the  fire." 

Mrs.  Chubbe  hastened  to  make  the  change.  A  very  small 
voice  inside  her  whispered,  "Courage,  Martha — stand  firm; 
you  know  what  hangs  upon  it."  And  with  renewed  strength, 
the  farmer's  wife  faced  the  great  lady  and  prepared  for  battle. 

"A  rumour  has  reached  me,  Martha,"  began  my  lady  in 
a  tone  of  "such  presumption  would  be  unheard  of" — "a 
rumour  so  improbable,  so  utterly  impossible,  that  of  course 
it  is  not  true.  Yet,  although  I  have  traced  it  to  its  various 
sources,  and  severely  reprimanded  those  from  whom  it  orig- 
inated," the  high  forehead  puckered  slightly,  "yet,  as  they  per- 
sist in  asserting  its  truth,  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty  as  your 
friend  and  well  wisher,  to  tell  you  what  people  are  saying. 
You  will  then  naturally  be  in  a  position  to  contradict  such 
unfounded  statements."  She  paused;  Martha,  standing  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  rested  her  finger  tips  on  the 
table.  They  were  white  with  the  pressure,  every  muscle  taut 
with  suppressed  agitation.  My  lady  opened  her  lips,  but  the 
farmer's  wife  was  first. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  lady,  that  you  should  have  heard  it  from 
anyone  but  me  an'  my  husband."  Lady  Karen  raised  her  eyes 
haughtily.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  still  staring  at  her  fingers,  went  hur- 
riedly on. 

"I  expect,  my  lady,  it's  about  Betty  you've  heard.  You 
see,  my  lady,  she's  getting  a  big  girl,  eleven  last  May,  an' — " 
Lady  Karen  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Kindly  come  to  the  point,  Martha.    Is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  my  lady."  Mrs.  Chubbe  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked 
straight  across  the  table.  Lady  Karen  was  silent  for  a  min- 
ute. Indignation  struggled  for  mastery,  but  my  lady's  pride 
subdued  it.  Only  in  the  cold  high-bred  tones  could  it  be  de- 
tected. 

"I  think,  Martha,  you  hardly  understand  the  responsibility 
you  are  incurring.  Naturally  you  are  proud  of  Betty ;  she  has 
more  than  her  share  of  beauty.  Indeed,  it  is  almost  a  pity. 


Made  the  Swineherd  an  Offer  181 

But  to  take  her  out  of  her  sphere,  to  give  her  an  education 
such  as — as — "  pride  stopped  her  for  a  moment,  "such  as  my 
lord  is  giving  his  daughter,  is  not  only  presumptuous  folly,  but 
cruel,  wicked  pride.  I  trust  that,  before  I  leave  you,  I  shall 
be  able  to  convince  you  of  this."  Mrs.  Chubbe  was  silent. 
"Betty  is  a  great  favourite  of  my  sister's,"  went  on  my  lady; 
"it  has  always  been  our  hope  that,  when  she  was  old  enough, 
she  should  take  the  place  that  you  once  held  so  satisfactorily, 
and  stay  with  us  till  she  married.  But  if  you  persist  in  this — 
this  absurd  notion,"  my  lady's  tones  grew  more  emphatic,  "she 
will  be  quite  unfitted  for  such  duties.  Indeed,  I  could  not  see 
my  way  clear  to  taking  her,  or,"  with  an  air  of  finality,  "of 
recommending  her  to  my  friends." 

The  farmer's  wife  stood  straight.  My  lady,  in  the  high- 
backed  chair,  resting  her  shapely  arm  and  well  gloved  hand 
on  the  table  beneath  her,  rapped  impatiently.  Mrs.  Chubbe 
found  her  voice. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  my  lady — and  my  Lady  Kezzy — 
she's  always  been  kind  to  the  child,  and  indeed — indeed,  my 
lady,  we're  grateful — very,  very  grateful.  But — "  again  the 
pause — again  my  lady's  quick  tap.  "But  me  an'  my  husband 
thought  that — my  lady,  we've  thought  of  keepin'  her  at  home, 
later  on,  I  mean.  It'll  be  lonely,  my  lady,  without  her." 

"Tut-tut,"  was  the  impatient  reply.  "No  more  lonely  for 
you  than  for  other  people.  So — "  she  rose  slowly,  "I  am  to 
understand  that  you  persist  in  this  folly,  that  Betty  is  to  be 
sent  to  the  convent,  to  be  educated  with  the  daughters  of 
peers,  who  will  look  down  upon  her  and  despise  her,  to  be 
educated  above  her  station  in  life,  to  be  taught  habits  of 
which  she  will  never  know  the  need,  and  given  ideas  which 
will  unfit  her  for  this  village.  Take  care,  Martha,  Betty's 
looks  alone  are  a  responsibility;  you  are  taking  a  greater 
one  upon  yourself.  The  time  will  come,  perhaps,  when  you 
will  be  lonelier  than  if  she  were  living  in  safe  and  honest 
service;  then,  perhaps,  you  will  wish  that  your  vanity  and 
pride  had  never  prompted  you  to  try  and  raise  her  above  the 


182  When  Pan  Pipes 

state  of  life  to  which  she  was  called.  No — "  she  raised  her 
hand,  and  made  her  way  to  the  door,  "don't  come  with  me, 
I  can  find  my  way  out.  I'm  disappointed  in  you,  Martha 
Chubbe,  bitterly  disappointed." 

She  swept  across  the  kitchen  and  down  the  stone  passage, 
Martha  following  humbly.  Mr.  Chubbe,  emerging  from  some 
secret  haunt,  opened  the  great  door,  and  without  another 
word,  amid  a  rustle  of  silks,  a  flutter  of  feathers,  and  a  per- 
fume of  some  subtle  essence,  my  lady  passed  through,  and 
entered  the  carriage,  surrounded  by  a  gaping,  curtseying  crowd 
of  villagers. 

"Was  she  very  angry,  missis?"  asked  the  farmer,  following 
his  wife  into  the  kitchen. 

"Ah,  she  was  indeed.  An'  you  can't  blame  her  neither. 
Come  to  think  o'  it,  'tis  presumption  to  send  the  child  to  the 
convent  where  my  Lady  Mary  is.  But  there — "  Mrs.  Chubbe 
poked  up  the  fire,  put  on  fresh  billets  of  wood,  and  exhausted 
a  little  pent-up  temper,  "if  the  Mother'll  have  her — an'  she 
says  she  will — your  money's  as  good  as  my  lord's,  an'  my 
lady's  no  need  to  say  as  Betty'll  go  wrong  because  it's  spent 
on  her.  She  won't  be  the  first  girl  who's  climbed  to  the  top 
o'  the  ladder.  An'  there's  others  who've  climbed  down,  which 
I  could  have  said,  only  for  not  wantin'  to  hurt  her  feelings 
more'n  could  be  helped." 

Having  eased  her  mind  of  such  radical  sentiments,  Mrs. 
Chubbe  called  together  maids  and  niece,  and  prepared  to  dish 
the  dinner. 

And  now  indeed  did  Betty's  near  future  begin  to  unveil 
itself  and  take  shape.  She  was  to  go  after  the  summer  holi- 
days, and  for  once  she  revelled  in  new  clothes.  Frocks  and 
bonnets  galore,  gloves  and  sandalled  shoes,  fine  white  stock- 
ings, and  a  pile  of  new  handkerchiefs;  the  only  bitter  drop 
in  a  cup  of  sweetness — for  to  Betty's  lot  fell  the  hemming  of 
them.  But  they  were  done  at  last.  The  wooden  box  was 
packed,  the  final  solemn  injunctions  delivered  by  Mrs.  Chubbe, 


Made  the  Swineherd  an  Offer  183 

and  Betty  sent  off  to  an  early  bed,  accompanied  by  the  unusual 
business  of  a  middle-week  bath. 

But  at  the  last  her  courage  failed.  The  sight  of  Jenny  and 
the  cart  containing  all  her  worldly  possessions,  the  early  break- 
fast, the  arrival  of  Jerry,  who  was  to  go  with  them  and  return 
as  company  for  the  farmer,  combined  with  more  than  the  usual 
tartness  on  her  aunt's  part,  brought  reality  to  the  child,  and 
the  tears  burst  forth,  frightening  Mrs.  Chubbe  into  amiability, 
so  rare  were  they. 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  sobbed  Betty,  throwing  herself  into 
the  farmer's  arms.  "Oh,  Uncle  Matt,  I  don't  want  to.  I'm 
afraid  of— of — all — those  ladies."  Mr.  Chubbe  patted  her  sol- 
emnly on  the  back,  and  swallowed  many  times.  His  wife  came 
to  the  rescue. 

"There,  there,  Betty  child,  dry  your  eyes.  'Tisn't  for  long. 
An'  think  what  a  grand  lady  you'll  be  soon." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady,"  wailed  Betty. 

"Nonsense,"  retorted  her  aunt ;  then,  coaxingly,  "why,  'tisn't 
like  you,  child,  to  be  afraid ;  an'  there's  no  call  to  be.  There's 
the  sisters ;  they'll  take  care  of  you.  An'  the  reverend  Mother ; 
she's  as  kind  as  kind.  An'  then  there's  Lady  Mary — you  love 
her,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,"  came  between  the  sobs,  "I — I — love — Lady  Mary, 
but — but — oh — I  shall  be — so — so  lonely." 

Consoling  and  coaxing  prevailed  at  length,  and  Betty,  with 
swollen  eyelids  and  a  very  red  face,  was  kissed  and  lifted  into 
the  cart. 

The  sweet  July  morning,  helped,  in  spite  of  recent  asser- 
tions, by  gleeful  anticipation,  soon  revived  doleful  spirits. 
Betty's  tongue  found  itself,  and  the  goose-girl  was  quite  ready 
at  the  end  of  the  first  mile  to  wear,  for  a  time  at  least,  the 
garments  and  habits  of  a  princess. 

Mistress  Loneliness  comes  in  many  forms,  but  few  know 
her  as  she  really  is;  Betty,  that  night,  between  convent  walls, 
amid  strange  faces  and  strange  surroundings,  fancied  that 


184  When  Pan  Pipes 

she  knew  her  intimately.  Matthew  Chubbe  and  his  wife,  lack- 
ing the  sound  of  tripping  footsteps,  the  ripple  of  light  laughter, 
the  sweet  imperious  voice,  told  themselves  that  she  had  come 
to  dwell  with  them  indefinitely.  But  they  were  wrong.  She 
wears  many  masks,  and  unveils  herself  to  few. 

In  deep  woods,  by  flickering  firesides,  under  the  stars  in 
his  little  garret,  for  many,  many  months,  she  had  dwelt  with 
Jerry,  and  he  knew  her  as  she  really  is,  loving  her,  as  all 
must,  who  meet  her  heart  to  heart.  For  she  brings  with 
her  dear  ghosts  of  the  past,  sweet  memories,  loved  voices, 
tender,  fragrant  scents,  while  about  her  float  airily  a  whole 
host  of  fairies — the  fairies  of  fancy,  of  beautiful  thoughts, 
of  shadows,  dreams,  of  song  and  melody.  Ah,  surely  with 
Loneliness  the  sound  of  Pan's  piping  rises  clear  and  strong, 
for  those  who  know  her,  love  her  more  dearly  when  she  comes 
hand  in  hand  with  Nature. 

But  the  Loneliness  that  dwelt  in  the  cottage  now  was  no 
longer  a  friend.  Paul  gone,  Betty  gone,  and  this  stranger 
who  had  come  in  the  place  of  the  quiet,  restful  Loneliness  he 
knew  and  loved  so  well!  He  counted  the  months  to  the 
time  when  he  should  leave  it  all  behind.  The  pedlar  would 
come  once  more,  and  Jerry  would  ask  him  the  best  things  to 
do,  and  then  at  any  time  he  could  start. 

The  widow  had  changed  greatly.  Even  to  the  child's  un- 
observant eyes  it  was  apparent,  so  thin  was  she,  and  the  blue 
eyes  grew  daily  dimmer.  There  were  red  rims  round  them, 
too,  and  dark  patches  beneath.  Jerry  wondered  if  she  were 
ill.  Gone  was  the  peace,  gone  the  atmosphere  of  homely  com- 
fort, even  it  seemed  that  the  kettle  no  longer  sung.  Tibbie 
lived  outside,  and  the  chirping  cricket  had  found  another  home. 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  the  child  that  the  minister's  ranting 
meant  something  different  to  the  actual  words,  which  at  no 
time  could  he  understand  thoroughly.  Sometimes,  too,  at 
night,  he  fancied  he  heard  the  sound  of  crying,  and  once  he 
woke  with  the  echo  of  a  scream  in  his  ears. 

There  were  actual  discomforts  too.    Though  the  minister 


Made  the  Swineherd  an  Offer  185 

had  better  food  than  Jerry  had  ever  seen  on  the  widow's 
table,  their  own  was  poor,  and  none  too  plentiful.  Contrary 
to  old  times,  the  widow  piled  his  plate  with  all  there  was, 
but  ate  little  herself,  though  Jerry,  noticing  it  one  day,  be- 
seeched  her  to  take  more.  She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  child,  no ;  seems  like  as  though  I'd  gone  off  my  vittles 
lately." 

There  was  economy,  too,  with  sticks ;  Jerry  spent  what  time 
he  could  spare  gathering  them  in  the  woods,  but  even  the 
charm  of  that  was  gone.  There  was  no  time  to  loiter  with 
Loneliness,  for  sticks  must  be  had,  and  he  knew  that  for  some 
reason  or  other  the  widow  could  no  longer  afford  to  buy. 
Potatoes  were  scarce,  indeed,  only  to  be  obtained  by  purchase. 
For  one  day,  in  the  autumn,  a  man  appeared,  and  the  widow's 
winter  store  was  half  dug  before  she  was  aware  of  it. 

"Minister's  orders,  m'am;  to  be  sold  next  market  day  at 
Channington." 

Jerry,  standing  by,  was  surprised  that  she  offered  no  re- 
sistance. Slowly  and  very  heavily  she  returned  to  the  house, 
and  sitting  down  in  the  armchair,  told  him  to  fill  the  pail  from 
the  pump.  Left  alone,  a  few  tears,  the  tears  of  middle  age, 
dropped  one  by  one.  The  marks  they  leave  are  different  from 
youthful  passions,  only  an  added  dimness,  a  few  more  lines. 
When  Jerry  returned  she  was  setting  the  table,  and  the  room 
was  in  shadow. 

"The  sun  hurt  her  eyes,"  she  said,  but  he  fancied  she  didn't 
want  to  see  what  was  going  on  in  the  garden,  and  several  times, 
at  the  sound  of  the  spade,  she  roused,  and  put  a  hand  across 
her  ears  as  though  to  shut  out  the  sound. 

Something  happened  which  put  such  everyday  occurrences 
£s  potato  selling  quite  out  of  his  mind.  The  little  jingling 
chaise  stopped  one  morning  at  the  cottage  in  the  lane,  and 
my  Lady  Kezzy  herself  delivered  a  message  for  Jerry.  He 
was  to  go  up  to  the  Dower  House  that  evening  instead  of 
to  the  school.  Wondering  greatly,  and  slightly  afraid  lest  by 
an  unintentional  action  he  had  given  offence,  Jerry  dressed 


186  When  Pan  Pipes 

himself  in  his  best,  and  was  admitted  to  my  lady's  presence. 

He  was  shown  into  a  small  room,  and  after  a  few  minutes' 
wait,  she  came  to  him,  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  a  lady 
in  evening  dress.  Hardly  could  he  keep  his  attention  fixed 
for  admiration  of  the  rich  silk,  the  flashing  jewels,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  the  round  white  arms  and  shoulders,  which 
would  have  been  pretty  in  a  woman  ten  years  younger  than 
my  lady. 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  smiled  up  at  the  boy  stand- 
ing squarely  before  her.  There  was  no  trace  of  nervousness, 
no  fidgetting  with  his  hands,  and  the  grave  brown  face  look- 
ing into  hers,  showed  no  disquietude  in  the  presence  of  his 
betters. 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  wondering  why  I  sent  for  you,  Jerry," 
she  said  presently. 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"Well,  you're  getting  a  big  boy,  Jerry — old  enough  to  know 
what  you  want  to  do  with  your  life.  You  don't  mean  to  stay 
in  Cloudesley  always,  do  you  ?" 

"No,  my  lady ;  oh,  no."  She  smiled  at  the  vehemence  in  the 
tone. 

"You  see,  my  lady,"  Jerry  gathered  confidence,  "I'm  saving 
all  I  earn  to  go  to  London  when  I'm  twelve,  and  that's  almost 
here." 

"And  then,  Jerry,  when  you  get  to  London?"  Suddenly  a 
veil  seemed  to  draw  itself  away.  Out  of  the  mist  reality 
dawned,  and  he  saw  his  shadowy  dream  castles  crumble  away 
till  nothing  was  left  but  a  little  heap  of  glittering  stones.  A 
king's  page!  Foolish,  idle  dream,  a  fairy  tale  indeed.  And 
with  that  knowledge  came  a  sick  helplessness.  What  could  he 
do  in  London?  A  little  friendless  boy,  alone  in  a  great  city. 

"I — I — don't  know,  my  lady,"  came  the  answer  at  length, 
and  my  lady  looked  thoughtfully  at  him. 

"My  child,  you  can't  set  out  to  seek  your  fortune  nowadays, 
like  the  miller's  son  in  the  fairy  tales  you  are  so  fond  of.  YOU 
must  work  now,  and  fight,  it's  true,  but  in  a  different  way. 


Made  the  Swineherd  an  Offer  187 

Your  giants  are  temptations,  and  they  want  more  fighting  than 
the  giants  you  read  of.  Romance,"  she  sighed  pensively,  "ah, 
London's  full  of  it,  but  it  is  romance  which  is  only  romance 
to  those  who  can  read  beneath.  No,  child,  you  don't  under- 
stand. But  you  will  some  day — at  least  I  think  you  will.  And 
now — "  she  roused  herself,  the  dreaminess  gone  from  her  voice, 
"what  I  really  wanted  to  say  to  you  is  this.  Would  you  like 
to  go  to  London  and  enter  a  studio  with  the  idea  of  working 
at  your  art  ?  Would  you  work  hard,  and  try  to  make  a  name, 
and  do  us  credit  ?" 

Jerry  stood  silent.  It  was  too  great  a  surprise  to  grasp  at 
once.  Lady  Kezzy  watched  the  face  she  knew  so  well,  watched 
the  light  dawn  on  it,  the  delight  break,  and  smiled  again. 

"Well?" 

"Oh,  my  lady,  my  lady — "  Jerry  could  say  no  more,  but 
she  understood. 

"Then  I  think  we  may  consider  it  settled;  and  Jerry,  you 
shall  go  at  once — there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  We  must  speak 
to  Mrs.  Hagges  and  arrange  matters." 

Here  followed  a  discussion  as  to  clothes,  lodging,  and  so 
forth.  It  was  eight  o'clock  when  Jerry  left  the  Dower  House. 

The  night  was  full  of  happy  dreams,  and  daylight  conscious- 
ness brought  the  knowledge  of  something  delightful  ahead. 
The  minister  lurked  round  the  cottage  that  morning,  and  the 
widow  fidgetted  in  and  out,  glancing  constantly  up  the  lane. 
At  dinner  time  things  seemed  strange.  There  was  no  con- 
versation, not  even  the  customary  grace.  Jerry  took  no  no- 
tice. It  was  not  the  first  uncomfortable  meal  by  many.  At 
the  top  of  the  lane  he  met  the  post  woman,  and  matters  ex- 
plained themselves.  Of  late  the  letters  containing  his  board 
money  always  accompanied  some  days  of  extra  unpleasantness. 
He  thought  no  more  of  it. 

On  his  return,  though  his  head  was  full  of  glorious  plans, 
it  occurred  to  him  to  hope  that  the  minister  was  away;  it 
would  be  easier  to  tell  the  widow  alone.  The  cottage  was 
still.  He  took  off  his  shoes  and  entered  in  stockinged  feet, 


188  When  Pan  Pipes 

across  the  back'us  floor,  tip-toeing  on  the  cold  bricks.  Every- 
thing was  very  quiet,  but  suddenly  a  sound  rose — a  sound 
which  made  him  stop  with  blanched  face  and  quickly  beating 
pulse — a  low,  wailing  sound,  rising  and  falling  to  a  groan, 
a  pause,  and  it  rose  again,  followed  by  a  choking  sob. 

The  kitchen  door  stood  open,  and  Jerry  flew — noiselessly 
because  of  the  unshod  feet — also  the  occupants  were  too  en- 
grossed to  hear.  The  minister  sat  in  the  armchair;  he  had 
drawn  his  wife  on  his  knee,  and  at  the  first  glance  they  might 
have  been  taken  for  lovers.  But  the  tears  were  streaming 
down  the  widow's  cheeks;  cringing  and  writhing  she  tried  to 
draw  herself  from  the  arm  which  held  her  as  in  a  vice. 

"Ah — "  again  the  low  cry  of  pain,  and  Jerry  saw  the  min- 
ister's long  pincer-like  fingers  nip  her  arm. 

"Now  will  you  ?"  he  hissed. 

The  widow  shook  her  head,  and  the  fingers  tightened,  tight- 
ened, till  it  seemed  the  nails  must  meet  in  the  soft  flesh. 
Again  the  choking  sob. 

"Damn  you,  you  witch,  tell  me  where  it  is." 

Jerry  stayed  no  longer.  As  once  before,  the  room  turned 
red,  a  hot  fire  surged  in  him.  He  only  knew  that  he  sprang, 
that  he  was  cuffing,  striking,  biting.  Then  two  iron  hands 
held  him,  held  him  till  he  thought  he  would  have  choked. 
Away,  far  away,  he  heard  the  widow  screaming.  Still  he 
held  on  with  clenched  fists.  He  heard  as  in  a  dream  the 
screaming  turn  to  words;  it  was  the  widow's  voice,  changed 
almost  beyond  recognition. 

"If  you  durst  lay  a  finger  on  him,  Simeon,  to  hurt  the  child, 
I'll  let  the  village  know.  Yes,  even  if  you  kill  me  for't." 

And  suddenly  the  hold  relaxed,  something  threw  him  away, 
the  mist  cleared,  and  he  saw  the  kitchen  swimming  before  him. 
Something  black — for  a  moment  he  mistook  it  for  the  devil — 
seemed  to  stretch  to  the  ceiling.  Then  he  knew  it  for  the 
minister — the  minister,  with  his  white  face  purple  and  swollen, 
the  unsightly  blotches  paler,  and  the  black  eyes  burning  like 


Made  the  Swineherd  an  Offer  189 

fire.  He  was  tossing  his  arms  to  the  ceiling,  and  the  widow 
cowered  in  the  armchair. 

"Damn  you — damn  you — blast  you — you  witch."  The  rant- 
ing voice  shrilled  and  rose  to  a  thin  scream.  "Curse  you — you 
and  your  brood.  I'll  make  your  life  a  hell ;  I'll  pinch  you,  and 
burn  you,  and  torture  you,  till  you're  like  dust  beneath  my 
feet,  till  you'll  wish  you  were  dead."  Hissing  like  a  snake, 
pouring  out  curses  in  the  high  ranting  voice  now  pitched  in 
a  piercing  key,  shaking  his  fist,  and  gesticulating  so  wildly 
that  his  listeners  could  only  think  of  him  as  a  madman,  he 
reached  the  door,  rushed  across  the  back'us,  and  out  to  the 
lane  and  fields  beyond. 

The  widow  sat  on,  shaking  like  a  leaf,  every  now  and  then 
a  tear  rolling  slowly  down  unheeded.  Jerry  pulled  himself 
together,  surprised  to  find  no  hurts,  and  made  his  way  to  the 
stool.  There  was  silence,  not  the  peaceful  silence  of  old,  but 
tense,  strained.  He  knew  the  things  were  listening,  though 
they  showed  no  sign. 

"He's  a  bad  man,"  said  the  widow  presently.  "But  he  shan't 
get  it — no,  that  he  shan't." 

"Shan't  get  what,  m'am  ?"  asked  Jerry,  puzzled. 

"That—"  said  the  widow  vaguely.     "What  he  wants." 

"Oh!"  replied  Jerry,  more  puzzled.  A  longer  silence  fol- 
lowed, so  long  that  he  fancied  she  must  be  asleep.  But  a  big 
tear  dropped  on  the  white  apron,  and  she  lifted  her  head. 

"Come  here,  little  boy."  Jerry  rose  and  crossed  to  her  side. 
Lifting  her  poor  thin  face,  tear-stained  and  swollen,  she  peered 
at  him  with  dim  blue  eyes. 

"You  won't  leave  me,  child,  will  you?"  she  said  piteously. 
"They're  saying  you're  going  when  you're  twelve.  But  you 
won't — "  the  fingers  closed  gently  on  his  wrist ;  they  were  as 
the  touch  of  heavy  fetters.  "Say  you  won't,  little  boy.  He'll 
— kill  me."  There  was  a  frightened  look  on  her  face.  "You 
won't  let  him,  will  you?  Not  when  you're  here.  But  I'm  all 
alone,  an'  he  wants  me  away,  so's  he  can  have  the  house  an' 


190  When  Pan  Pipes 

my  best  chiney,  an'  the  silver.  But  he  shan't — no,  that  he 
shan't."  Just  for  a  moment  the  voice  sounded  like  that  one 
he  had  heard  so  lately,  then  it  fell  again  to  its  usual  flat 
monotony,  only  something  grievously  sad  had  got  there. 

"Say  you  won't,  little  boy — oh,  say  you'll  stay." 

Ah,  the  beautiful  future,  the  glorious  fabric  building  so  long 
a  time.  Fair  as  a  dream  city,  fairer  still  as  it  receded  from 
him.  There  was  a  heavy  sinking  at  his  heart.  He  pleaded — 
argued  with  himself.  How  could  he  refuse  my  lady's  gift? 
Would  it  not  be  wrong?  A  voice  whispered,  "No,  Jerry  boy, 
no,"  and  it  sounded  like  the  voice  so  long  silent,  so  like  that 
it  seemed  he  heard  the  words.  What  did  he  remember? 
"You'll  hear  me,  Jerry  boy,  sometimes.  But  you  must  be  good 
and  true,  ready  to  help  those  weaker  than  yourself." 

How  the  voice  rang!  Could  he?  Oh,  it  was  too  much  to 
ask.  The  tear-dimmed,  wrinkled  face  looked  piteously  at  him 
through  a  blurred  mist,  the  trembling  fingers  rested  on  his 
beseechingly. 

"I  told  her,  my  lady — "  began  Jerry  falteringly. 

"Yes,  I  know."  There  was  a  sob.  "But— I  thought— 
maybe — you'd  not  be  hankering  for  going.  He'll — he'll — " 
again  the  frightened  look,  "he'll — kill  me,  for  sure.  Look, 
child — "  She  drew  her  hand  away  and  pushed  up  the  sleeve 
of  her  gown.  The  poor  arm,  once  so  plump  and  round,  was 
flabby  now,  and  on  it  were  bruises;  black,  blue,  brown,  in 
various  stages.  Jerry  recoiled  in  horrified  anger. 

"That's  what  he  does  when  he  wants  things — an'  worse." 
She  rolled  down  the  sleeve,  still  crying  quietly.  Again  came 
the  dear  voice — the  well  remembered  words — and  the  dream 
castle  shattered  and  tumbled  like  a  card  house. 

"I'll — I'll — stay,"  said  Jerry,  and  just  for  a  moment,  the 
widow  sat  quite  quiet.  Then,  taking  out  a  handkerchief,  she 
wiped  her  eyes,  put  the  front  straight,  and  rising,  proceeded 
to  lay  the  cloth. 

"You'll  be  wanting  your  tea,  I'm  thinkin',"  she  said  in  an 
ordinary  tone. 


Made  the  Swineherd  an  Offer  191 

Jerry,  choking  down  a  sob,  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  little 
room.  There  at  least  was  peace  and  loneliness,  though  Lone^ 
liness  wore  a  mask  and  was  no  longer  her  beautiful,  lovable 
self.  His  death  warrant  was  sealed,  and  by  his  own  hand. 
Gone — gone  were  the  beautiful  dreams,  gone  the  glorious  task 
of  building.  No  longer  would  daily  toil  be  sweetened  by  vi- 
sions. Life  stretched  out — dreary,  commonplace — full  of  dull 
work. 

"Oh,  daddy,  daddy,"  cried  Jerry,  kneeling  against  the  win- 
dow sill,  "I  can't  be  a  gentleman.  I  can't  do  anything  but  farm 
work  now." 

Again  came  the  tender  voice,  "Be  good,  Jerry  boy ;  be  brave 
and  true,  and  remember  that  it's  not  money  and  position  that 
make  you  so." 

Slightly  comforted,  he  lifted  his  eyes.  A  friendly  face 
looked  across  the  fields  at  him;  and  by  its  side  rose  another. 
Bright  and  round,  it  seemed  to  the  child's  bewildered  mind 
that  they  said,  "Cheer  up,  Jerry  boy.  It'll  pass — it'll 
pass." 

Ah,  but  there  were  hard  days  in  store.  Just  at  first  a 
little  wave  of  satisfied  duty  bore  him  up,  but  as  it  dropped 
to  a  dead  level,  life  indeed  became  a  dreary  thing.  Labour, 
unsweetened  by  dreams,  duty,  in  an  ever  circling  wheel,  un- 
rest in  the  cottage,  and  for  a  time  a  distaste  for  everything, 
even  the  modelling  clay.  And  worse  than  all  was  my  Lady 
Kezzy's  disappointment.  He  had  gone  straight  to  her  at  first, 
only  to  find  that  explanation  was  impossible.  How  could  he 
tell  her  that  he  was  staying  because  the  widow  was  lonely  and 
wanted  him?  Such  a  great  sacrifice  was  not  to  be  spoken  of. 
Instinctively  he  knew  that  a  gentleman  does  not  speak  of  his 
self  conquests.  All  he  could  say  was  that  he  couldn't  go. 
Lady  Kezzy  tried  reasoning,  questioning,  till,  suspecting  more 
than  came  to  the  surface,  she  let  him  go,  and  went  down  to 
the  cottage  in  the  lane. 

The  widow  knew  nothing.  "The  boy  had  changed  his  mind," 
she  supposed.  "Children  were  strange  tkings." 


192  When  Pan  Pipes 

Sorely  puzzled,  loath  to  believe  Jerry  changeable,  my  lady 
returned.  Lady  Karen,  hearing  of  it,  smiled  cynically. 

"Another  of  Keziah's  swans  who  are  only  ducklings,"  she 
said.  But  in  spite  of  outward  appearances,  deep  down  in  my 
lady's  heart  ran  a  feeling  that  things  were  not  all  they  seemed, 
and  that  her  swan  would  some  day  show  himself  in  his  true 
colours. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   WITCH   LIFTS  THE  CURTAIN   AND  LETS  JERRY  OUT  OF 
THE  CAGE 

MISTRESS  LONELINESS,  with  her  troop  of  followers, 
fled  the  cottage,  and  Dame  Habit,  who  is  a  daughter  of 
Time,  and  from  him  inherits  her  comforting  character,  her 
healing  touch,  and  soft  monotonous  voice,  took  her  place. 
And  Jerry,  the  widow  too,  almost  forgot  the  old  peacefulness, 
the  old  homely  routine.  Fear,  dread,  and  unrest  also  dwelt 
in  the  cottage.  Habit,  it  is  true,  bore  some  of  their  keenest 
pain,  and,  as  far  as  it  was  in  her  power,  made  life  bearable. 
But  not  even  she  could  do  more.  The  minister,  like  some 
cruel  slave  driver,  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere.  Meals 
must  be  ready,  fires  made  up,  his  clothes  brushed  and  mended, 
and,  what  Jerry  only  guessed  at,  money  forthcoming. 

Food  grew  scarcer.  Bread — the  widow  gleaned  from  the 
first  stroke  of  church  bell  till  evening  fell — eked  out  by  veg- 
etables, and  these  two,  supplemented  by  odds  and  ends  from 
fields,  formed  their  chief  subsistence.  Even  then  a  meal  sel- 
dom passed  without  remonstrance  from  Jerry  at  the  unequal 
division.  In  truth  the  widow's  appetite  was  gone,  although, 
who  shall  say  but  that  among  the  dim,  unsuspected  emotions 
stirring  in  the  depths  of  her  personality,  the  virtue  of  self- 
denial  had  not  crept  in.  Habit  stroked  down  the  thin  frame, 
smoothed  away  the  old  hard  look  in  the  wrinkled  face,  and  the 
widow,  doing  away  with  the  front  as  it  grew  shabby,  parted 
the  grey  strands,  and  restored  Nature's  balance  between  skin 
and  hair. 

The  village  looked  on  and  pitied,  only  guessing  at  half  the 

193 


194  When  Pan  Pipes 

happenings  in  the  cottage,  but  seeing  outside  what  its  inmates 
never  suspected. 

"Mrs.  Hagges  is  losin'  all  her  good  looks,"  said  the  farmer's 
wife,  with  a  sniff  which  said  plainly,  "An*  I  know  why." 
"Marriage  ain't  done  much  for  her,  an'  that  I  could  ha'  told 
her.  Takin'  up  wi'  that  ninimy-pinimy  of  a  man.  She  ain't 
much  count,  but  he — " 

At  which  the  farmer  would  shake  his  head  solemnly  with 
a  far  away,  troubled  expression. 

"I'm  afeard  there  ain't  much  happiness  up  there,  wife,  an' 
I'm  afeard  for  the  child.  He's  lost  the  look  o'  a  child." 

"He's  only  got  hisself  to  blame,"  answered  Mrs.  Chubbe 
tartly;  "he  should  ha'  taken  my  lady's  offer.  There's  Betty 
gone,  an'  the  little  count,  an'  after  all  his  fine  talk  o'  savin' 
an'  makin'  hisself  a  gentleman,  what's  it  all  come  to  ?  Actions 
speak  louder'n  words,  say  I." 

But  the  farmer  saw  deeper.  He,  too,  knew  Loneliness  un- 
masked; he,  too,  in  solitary  tramps  and  long  days  amid  corn 
fields  and  pasture  lands,  heard  Pan's  piping,  and  recognized 
its  different  keys,  and  though  unable  to  put  his  thoughts  into 
words,  instinctively  knew  whom  they  called. 

"There  summat  more'n  what  the  child  says,"  he  mused  to 
himself,  yet  content  to  wait,  knowing  that,  sooner  or  later, 
truth  will  out.  Ah,  the  dull  dreary  days.  The  sun  never 
seemed  to  shine  now,  skies  were  always  grey.  Betty's  holi- 
days brought  a  spark  of  happiness,  but  Betty  too,  was  alter- 
ing. She  spoke  softly,  laughed  less,  and,  when  she  thought 
of  it,  stopped  romping.  There  was  much  to  tell  that  was  in- 
teresting. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  the  sisters  are  so  kind  and  so  gentle,  and  yet 
you've  got  to  do  all  they  say.  And  it's  so  peaceful,  and  the 
convent  garden — oh,  I  do  wish  you  could  see  it.  It's  lovely. 
And  all  the  young  ladies — I'm  a  young  lady  now,  Jerry ;  isn't 
it  funny? — are  so  nice  to  me,  but — "  a  soft  look  grew  in  Betty's 
eyes,  "there's  not  one  like  Lady  Mary.  Oh,  Jerry,  she's  an 
angel.  I  envy  the  girls  who  go  to  school  when  she's  a  sister. 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  195 

You  know,  she's  going  to  take  the  vows  when  she's  grown 
up.  I'm  glad  I'm  not;  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  a  nun;  I  want 
to  see  things,  and  wear  nice  clothes,  and — and — " 

Betty  babbled  on,  but  Jerry  hardly  listened;  he  was  think- 
ing of  Lady  Mary.  Again  came  the  longing  to  see  her. 

Paul,  too,  was  heard  of.  He  wrote  long  letters  to  both 
children.  Betty's — read  of  course  by  those  in  authority — con- 
tained no  allusion  to  that  last  meeting.  Jerry's  opened  up  new 
fields  for  thought,  or  would  have  done  under  other  circum- 
stances. For  the  present  all  desire  for  outside  interests  had 
left  him.  And  when  the  letters  were  read,  and  the  holidays 
over,  dreariness  fell  again. 

So  the  long,  long  years  passed.  In  spite  of — a  modern 
might  have  said  because  of — poor  living,  poor  clothing,  and 
lack  of  comforts,  Jerry  grew  apace,  adding  inches  to  his  height 
and  pounds  to  his  weight.  The  sturdy  shoulders  broadened 
and  deepened;  he  could  run  and  lift  with  any  man  on  the 
farm.  No  longer  did  the  minister  lay  a  hand  on  him,  that 
gentleman  had  other  fish  to  fry  nowadays.  During  the  past 
years  his  love — if  violent  passion  and  an  almost  uncontrollable 
jealousy  could  be  called  by  such  a  name — for  Hester,  had 
grown  to  something  almost  terrible  in  its  obsession.  The  old 
religious  fanaticism  dwarfed  and  paled  beside  its  rival,  yet 
still  lingered,  mingling  confusedly  in  the  half  crazy  brain  with 
the  all-absorbing  desire. 

He  would  wander  about  the  fields  and  woods,  talking,  ges- 
ticulating wildly ;  the  villagers,  his  own  followers  at  least,  were 
vastly  edified.  "  Tis  minister  wrastlin'  wi'  the  devil,"  said 
they,  and  watched  secretly  and  with  fearful  awe. 

The  inmates  of  the  cottage  saw  very  little  of  him.  For 
that  reason,  or  perhaps  because  of  a  look  in  the  boy's  face, 
which  would  have  warded  off  a  stronger  man,  the  widow 
suffered  less — at  least,  there  were  no  signs  of  any  violence. 
And  with  Father  Time  and  Dame  Habit  at  the  helm,  Jerry 
slipped  into  his  old  ways  again,  working,  modelling,  learning, 
even  though  all  hope  of  anything  different  was  gone.  There 


196  When  Pan  Pipes 

was  a  strange  feeling  of  content,  of  duty  done  and  self  con- 
quered. My  Lady  Kezzy  was  dimly  conscious  of  it;  Farmer 
Chubbe  knew  and  understood,  and,  if  possible,  Jerry  grew 
dearer  every  day,  almost  as  dear  as  Betty. 

About  this  time  the  farmer,  too,  began  to  build;  but  not 
a  castle,  only  a  small  nest,  snug  and  warm,  and  very  near 
his  heart — such  a  humble  future,  yet  perhaps  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  grand  palaces  and  cloud-capped  towers  which 
younger  architects  were  planning.  It  is  one  of  Nature's  laws 
that  forces  gather  in  the  quiet  times.  Events  were  drawing 
together,  shaping,  and  were  soon  about  to  burst  like  stars  from 
a  rocket. 

It  began  by  a  piece  of  news  in  the  village.  Roger  Dyke 
came  in  for  a  legacy — "a  bag  of  money"  said  report,  ''a  hun- 
dred pounds"  averred  gossip.  This  smoke  was  not  without 
'  fire ;  it  soon  became  known  that  an  old  aunt  had  left  a  stock- 
ing full  of  sovereigns,  sixty  in  all,  and  Cloudesley  wondered 
and  talked  for  seven  days,  then  found  another  topic.  Roger 
Dyke,  a  thrifty  man  and  somewhat  of  a  miser,  put  the  money 
aside,  meaning  to  bank  it  next  market  day.  But  the  bright 
gold  was  alluring,  and  Thursday  after  Thursday  passed,  and 
the  bag  still  lay  hidden  under  one  of  the  boards  in  the  sitting- 
room. 

There  are  certain  women  to  whom  a  man  is  a  man,  regard- 
less of  his  character  or  appearance.  Mrs.  Hagges  was  such. 
There  are  others  who  prefer  a  warped  nature,  even  if  coupled 
with  a  repulsive  ugliness,  who  see  in  him  something  which 
the  ordinary  man  does  not  possess.  Such  was  Hester  Dyke. 
Handsome,  bold,  unscrupulous,  she  found  in  the  minister  a 
fascination  wholly  lacking  in  her  husband,  honest  man,  or 
indeed,  in  any  one  of  the  bucolic  swains,  whom,  by  dint  of 
smiles  and  jealousy  of  each  other,  she  kept  dangling  after 
her. 

The  minister,  between  want  of  her  and  want  of  the  widow's 
worldly  belongings,  had,  like  the  donkey  between  two  bundles 
of  straw,  been  hung  up.  Hester  herself  settled  matters  by 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  197 

her  marriage.  But  afterwards,  the  old  footing  had  been  re- 
established, and  the  minister  consorted  with  the  husband  while 
he  made  love  to  the  wife,  a  love-making  whose  secrecy  had 
a  curious  fascination  in  it  for  their  natures.  It  might  have 
gone  on  indefinitely,  but  for  the  money  and  Roger  Dyke's  love 
for  it. 

One  morning,  Cloudesley  had  its  ears  tickled  with  the 
choicest  piece  of  scandal  for  many  a  long  year.  The  minister 
had  deserted  his  flock,  Hester  Dyke  was  missing,  and  her 
husband's  bag  of  money  was  gone. 

It  had  been  well  planned.  She  had  left  home  on  a  two 
days'  visit  to  a  friend  at  Channington.  The  minister  was 
responsible  to  no  one  but  himself.  They  were  traced  to  a 
town  some  twenty-five  rniles  away,  and  from  thence  to  Lon- 
don, where,  in  the  whirlpool  of  the  great  city,  they  were 
swallowed  up  and  forgotten,  save  by  the  few. 

Roger  Dyke,  in  a  sober,  phlegmatic  way,  loved  his  wife, 
but  she  had  ruled  him,  and  after  the  first  shock  there  was 
a  sense  of  freedom  unknown  for  some  years.  He  loved  his 
money  more,  and  what  with  anger  for  its  loss,  bitter  hatred 
of  the  man  who  had  led  her  on  to  take  it,  and  the  aforesaid 
freedom,  Hester  was  secondary.  If  she  chose  to  run  away 
from  a  good  home  and  husband,  why,  she  could  go,  and  he 
resumed  his  bachelor  ways  without  much  regret. 

To  the  cottage  the  news  came  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue. 
Peter  the  Ranger,  that  inveterate  gossip,  brought  it. 

"So  you've  lost  him,  missis,"  he  said,  standing  back  to  the 
fire — there  was  no  bread  and  cheese,  and  no  ale  forthcoming 
in  those  spare  days,  "an'  you'll  not  be  grievin'  I'm  thinkin'. 
He's  been  a  poor  sort  o'  husband,  for  sartain,  out  nights  an' 
days,  an*  never  keepin'  you  company,  nor  givin'  a  hand  wi' 
the  housework." 

The  widow,  hesitating  between  the  sufficiency  of  one  egg 
or  the  extravagance  of  two,  heard  but  little.  Peter  shook 
his  head  at  her  denseness. 

"I  must  speak  plain,"  he  murmured  to  himself ;  then  aloud, 


198  When  Pan  Pipes 

"You've  lost  him,  widow,"  and,  struck  by  the  appropriateness 
of  the  name,  "aye — you're  widow  indeed — you'll  never  need 
scold  a  body  when  he  calls  you  that  again."  She  looked  up, 
beating  her  pudding. 

"What  are  you  talking  of,  Peter?"  Peter,  to  speak  met- 
aphorically, beat  his  breast.  "How's  a  man  to  tell  her?" 

"Missis,  the  minister's  gone  off,  gone  off  an'  left  you." 

"Gone  off — "  she  repeated  vaguely,  "yes,  I  know;  but  he'll 
be  back  soon  for  his  dinner." 

"Oh,  will  he?"  responded  Peter,  with  sarcastic  emphasis. 
"I  tell  you,  widow,  he's  gone,  gone  with  another  man's  wife, 
an'  you'll  not  see  him  again  till  the  money's  spent."  The 
widow's  cheeks  paled. 

"Gone — "  she  echoed.     "The  money — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  was  the  impatient  reply.  "Gone.  He  went  off 
two  days  ago — he  an'  that  good-looking  piece,  Roger  Dyke's 
wife ;  an'  between  them,  they've  taken  sixty  pounds,  the  legacy 
old  Aunt  Jane  left;  an' — an' — why,  hold  up,  Harriet,  what's 
amiss?  I  didn't  ought  to  ha'  told  you  so  sudden  like."  The 
meaning  had  dawned,  and  the  widow's  spoon  dropped  from 
her  hand.  Peter  caught  her  as  she  tottered  to  the  armchair, 
and  he  noticed  pityingly  how  the  plump  frame  had  dwindled. 

"Could  hardly  ha'  carried  her  at  one  time,"  he  muttered, 
"an'  now.  There's  naught  to  grieve  on,  missis,"  he  said, 
standing  over  her.  "  Tis  no  loss."  She  shook  her  head. 

"A  husband's  a  husband,  Peter." 

"There's  some  as  don't  deserve  the  name.  You'd  ha*  done 
better  with  me,  Harriet,  when  we  was  young." 

"Maybe,  maybe."  The  first  shock  was  passing,  and  she 
made  an  effort  to  get  on  her  feet. 

"Sit  where  ye  are,  missis.  I'll  send  a  neighbour  in  as  I 
go."  A  look  of  terror  came  into  her  face. 

"No,  no,  Peter — don't  ye  do  that.  He  wouldn't  like  it; 
he  can't  abide  strangers."  Peter  lifted  his  hands  in  dismay. 

"Are  ye  daft,  missis  ?  Don't  you  understand  ?  He's  gone — 
gone.  You  can  do  as  you  like  now." 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  199 

"Can  I?"  She  sat  plucking  idly  at  the  red-cushioned  arms. 
Peter  watched,  despairing  of  making  an  impression. 

"I'll  go  an'  send  Mrs.  Chubbe.  Women  understand  these 
things."  The  widow  took  no  notice.  After  a  while  she 
glanced  mechanically  at  the  clock,  then  stumbled  to  her  feet 
and  returned  to  her  pudding.  But  even  as  she  stirred  in 
the  flour  the  whole  understanding  burst  upon  her. 

"He  won't  want  it — won't  want  any  more  puddings."  And 
with  a  groan  she  sank  back  in  the  chair,  her  hands  covering 
her  face,  the  tears  slowly  oozing  through  as  she  rocked  back- 
ward and  forward.  So  Mrs.  Chubbe  found  her,  and,  looking, 
forbore  to  scold.  They  got  her  to  bed.  There,  in  the  rose- 
papered  room,  under  the  patchwork  counterpane,  box-patterned, 
which,  with  the  china,  had  been  among  the  joys  of  her  life, 
she  lay,  half  waking,  half  sleeping,  between  consciousness  and 
dreaming,  for  some  days. 

Neighbours  crept  in  and  out,  kindly,  simple  souls,  with 
brews  and  possets  of  their  own  making,  and  offers  of  assist- 
ance. Jerry  wandered  about  the  cottage  and  garden,  missing 
sadly  the  familiar  figure,  wondering,  surmising,  but  never  let- 
ting his  thoughts  run  to  the  future.  Tibbie,  after  searching 
kitchen,  back'us,  and  parlour,  even  to  the  high  shelves  where 
perchance  her  mistress  might  lie  hid,  made  an  upward  journey, 
and  having  found  what  she  wanted,  took  up  her  position  on 
the  bed,  where  henceforth  she  lay  undisturbed.  The  doctor, 
a  spare,  keen-faced  man,  with  little  appearance  of  sympathy, 
came  from  Channington,  and  pronounced  the  verdict. 

"She'll  linger.  A  fortnight — a  month — maybe  two,  but — " 
He  shook  his  head,  and  Mrs.  Chubbe,  burning  with  curiosity, 
put  a  question.  He  looked  at  her,  and  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"You're  a  sensible  woman,  and  perhaps  you'll  believe  and 
perhaps  not;  but  it's  true,  notwithstanding.  There  are  some 
people  who  have  so  little  stamina  that  a  sudden  shock  will  kill 
them,  as  it  will  a  mouse.  Moreover,"  he  lifted  his  keen  eyes, 
"in  some  the  shock  takes  the  form  of  a  broken  heart.  This 
is  an  instance."  And  with  an  air  of  "Take  it  or  leave  it,"  the 


200  When  Pan  Pipes 

doctor  creaked  down  the  narrow  stairs,  mounted  his  horse  and 
rode  away,  leaving  Mrs.  Chubbe  gasping  with  astonishment. 

"A  broken  heart — did  ever  hear  the  like  on't?"  she  said 
that  evening  in  conclusion,  when  retailing  the  news  to  her 
husband.  "Doctor  must  be  daft.  An'  what's  she  had  to  break 
her  heart?  "Tisn't  grief,  for  sure,  for  a  worse  husband  never 
lived  i'  this  world.  But  he'll  get  what  he  hain't  bargained  for, 
if  I  know  Hester  Dyke.  A  woman  who's  once  left  a  man'll 
do  it  again  for  two  pins.  She'll  ha'  none  o'  his  tantrums. 
Broken  heart  indeed — T-r-r-r-r."  With  a  sound,  expressive, 
as  no  words  could  be,  of  utmost  scorn,  Mrs.  Chubbe  flounced 
out.  The  farmer  slowly  filled  his  long  clay  pipe,  pressing  down 
the  tobacco  meditatively,  and  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side 
in  a  ruminating  way. 

"Wimmen,  wimmen,"  he  ejaculated  softly,  "they're  queer 
kittle-cattle."  Then,  lighting  the  pipe  and  taking  a  long  draw, 
he  blew  a  pensive  cloud  of  smoke.  "Well,  well — 'tis  a  queer 
world  too."  He  settled  himself  in  the  chimney  corner,  moved 
the  pewter  spittoon  to  a  handy  spot.  "An'  there  be  queer  folk 
in  it,  mostly  wimmen."  With  this  summary,  the  farmer  put 
his  pipe  between  his  lips,  and  succumbed  to  the  soothing  in- 
fluence. 

And  so  another  visitor  was  on  his  way  to  the  cottage.  Day 
by  day  his  footsteps  drew  nearer,  the  shadow  of  his  coming 
grew  longer.  It  must  have  touched  the  widow's  bedroom,  for 
she  grew  restless. 

"Send  the  child,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  bending  over  her, 
asked  if  she  meant  Jerry.  A  little  nod  answered  her,  and 
the  farmer's  wife  went  downstairs  to  give  the  message.  Jerry 
noiselessly  crept  up  the  stairs  and  entered  the  rose-patterned 
room.  The  firelight  glowed  and  flickered,  long  shadows  ran 
up  and  down  the  walls,  in  and  out  the  furniture,  and  moved 
across  the  bed,  even  playing  over  the  tired  face,  familiar,  yet 
unfamiliar  with  a  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  great  knowledge 
coming  so  soon.  She  opened  her  eyes  as  he  came  near,  and 
beckoned  with  a  thin  finger. 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain 201 

"Come  here,  little  boy;  nearer — nearer."  The  voice  was 
low  and  faltering,  but  clearly  intelligent.  She  pulled  him  close 
and  whispered  with  some  of  the  old  frightened  air. 

"Has  he  gone  ?  You're  sure  he's  not  here,  not  in  the  corner, 
nor  behind  the  bed." 

Jerry  looked  to  reassure  her,  and  she  went  on;  yet  all  the 
time  the  tired  eyes  moved  restlessly  as  though  seeking. 

"I  hain't  been  a  good  woman — no,  I  hain't,"  slowly  the  words 
came.  "  'Twasn't  a  pound  a  month — "  the  labouring  breath 
drew  more  heavily.  "  'Twas — 'twas — three.  An*  at  first — at 
first — I — spent  it,  I — I — bought — a  new — carpet — for — the — 
bedroom — an' — an' — things — " 

Jerry  broke  in.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Hagges,  dear  Mrs.  Hagges,  it 
doesn't  matter."  But  she  waved  him  aside  with  a  troubled 
look  and  he  interrupted  no  more. 

"I  couldn't  abide  to  be  shabby.  An' — an',  then,  somehow 
when  I  knowed  ye  better — I — I — couldn't — "  She  raised  her- 
self, holding  with  one  bony  hand  on  Jerry.  Unlike  Mrs. 
Chubbe,  who,  under  similar  circumstances  would  have  for- 
bidden conversation  or  excitement,  he  made  no  remonstrance, 
only  propping  her  with  pillows  and  holding  the  wasted  hand 
in  his.  The  weak  voice  rose  in  triumphant  glee. 

"But — I've — got  it — all  on  it — an'  he — never — got  it — though 
he  tried — an'  he's — cruel  bad."  She  pulled  him  closer.  "He 
won't  come  in — you're  sure — sartain  sure?" 

"No,  m'am.     He's  not  here ;  he's  a  long  way  off." 

"Well,  then."  The  words  came  between  long  gasping 
breaths.  Jerry's  tears  fell.  She  was  turning,  hurriedly,  as 
though  seeking  something.  "The  bed  post — where  is  it?" 
Jerry,  wondering,  guided  her  hand;  with  a  sound,  which  in 
health  could  only  have  been  described  as  a  chuckle,  she  held 
his  finger,  drawing  it  slowly  downwards  till  it  touched  one  of 
the  richly  carved  roses. 

"Press — press — "  she  whispered.  Still  wondering,  but  obedi- 
ent, he  pushed  the  wood  inwards.  Something  creaked,  stirred, 
and  behold,  the  whole  piece  of  carving  moved  upwards,  dis- 


202  When  Pan  Pipes 

closing  a  hollow  aperture.  The  widow's  fingers  fumbled,  sank 
in  the  hole,  and  found  what  they  sought — a  small  bag.  Sink- 
ing back  on  the  pillows,  she  waited,  grasping  the  treasure  till 
strength  should  return,  then  thrust  it  into  Jerry's  hand. 

"It's  yours,  little  boy,  yours,  take  it.  You're  a  good  little 
boy — an'  that — I've — always  said.  An' — an' — hide  it — he — 
wants — it.  But  he  shan't — have  it — no — he  shan't — it's  all — 
3'ours — little  boy — the  cottage — an' — an' — "  The  voice  grew 
weaker — weaker — a  flicker  lit  the  tired,  worn  face,  and  Jerry, 
inexperienced  as  he  was,  saw  another  shadow,  a  shadow  which 
was  not  one  of  the  merry,  playful  ones  which  lived  in  the 
room. 

"An' — an' — the — chancy — came  from  afar  off."  He  flew 
to  the  door  and  called;  then,  with  the  thought  fulness  of  an 
older  head,  replaced  the  bag  and  closed  the  spring. 

"An* — an' — all — "  softly  came  from  the  bed;  then  silence, 
broken  by  the  creaking  of  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Chubbe  was  stand- 
ing by  him,  grave,  silent  for  once. 

And  the  shadow  lengthened;  it  seemed  to  fill  the  room, 
driving  those  others  to  shelter.  Darker,  dimmer,  grew  the 
twilight,  slowly  on  the  stillness  Church  Clock  struck  five. 
Mrs.  Chubbe  lit  candles  and  pushed  the  bed  curtains  further 
back.  The  light  seemed  to  rouse  the  dying  woman.  Across 
the  tired,  worn  face  came  a  gentle  creasing  and  uncreasing. 

"Get  along — wi' — ye — do — "  She  had  gone  back  to  that  first 
evening.  Then,  suddenly  opening  her  eyes,  she  moved,  half 
rose,  and  cried:  "Simeon — oh — Simeon!"  then  fell,  gasping. 

Mrs.  Chubbe,  with  a  muttered  cry,  put  her  arms  about  her 
and  laid  her  gently  down. 

"It's  over,  child,"  she  said,  regardless  of  the  tears  running 
down  her  cheeks ;  "an*  quiet — she  never  even  wanted  the  goose 
pillow.  An'  now,  run  across  an'  tell  neighbour  Brown,  she'll 
come  an'  help  me,  an'  keep  in  the  kitchen  till  I  tell  you." 

Within  five  minutes  the  two  women  were  shut  in  the  bed- 
room. Jerry  drew  the  red  curtains  of  the  kitchen,  made  up 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  203 

the  fire  and  filled  the  kettle,  knowing  that  when  the  last  serv- 
ices were  over,  a  stimulant  in  the  form  of  tea  would  be  wel- 
come. 

And  then,  somehow,  the  intervening  years  became  as  naught. 
In  the  quiet  of  the  kitchen  Mistress  Loneliness  peeped  through 
the  door,  and  unmasking,  was  her  old  self.  Forgetful  of  his 
long  legs,  Jerry  drew  out  the  three-legged  stool,  and  sitting  on 
it,  was  a  child  once  more.  A  little  lonely  boy,  thoughtful,  but 
not,  as  he  knew  it  now,  altogether  unhappy.  A  grey  mist  gath- 
ered in  the  red-cushioned  armchair  opposite,  formed  and  took 
shape,  filling  it,  making  dents  in  the  cushions.  Tibbie,  asleep 
again  on  the  hearth,  purred  loudly,  the  kettle  hummed,  then 
broke  into  singing,  and  suddenly,  from  somewhere,  came  the 
chirp — chirp  of  a  cricket.  In  the  silence  he  could  almost  hear 
the  widow's  deep  breathing.  All  around,  one  after  another, 
the  inanimate  things  woke  up.  They  had  been  watching, 
watching,  all  those  years.  Now  they  found  their  voices,  and 
they  were  no  longer  malicious,  jeering,  nor  did  they  grin  as 
of  old  in  the  witch's  kitchen. 

A  witch!  Strange  thought  now,  and  yet  once  so  natural. 
Only  a  poor  old  woman,  ignorant,  simple,  yet  with  the  germs 
of  nobility,  of  love.  She  was  gone — gone. 

"What  then?"  cried  the  inanimate  things.  "She  was  here 
for  a  space,  as  we  are.  She  lived  her  little  life  as  we  live 
ours.  Nature  gave  her  the  divine  spark  of  life,  as  we  are 
given  it,  only  a  larger  share.  She  is  gone,  as  we  shall  go; 
as  even  you,  Jerry  boy,  with  your  youth  and  your  strength, 
and  your  great  thoughts,  which  are,  after  all,  so  puny — with 
your  longings,  your  aspirations,  your  cravings  for  something 
beyond — will  go.  Even  so  shall  we  all  pass,  singly,  uncon- 
sciously, into  the  great  heart  of  nature.  And  she,  good  mother, 
shall  do  as  she  will  with  us — return  us  to  this  world,  pass  us 
on  to  another,  or  perhaps,  if  we're  very,  very  tired,  she'll  let 
us  sleep  and  rest  awhile." 

They  laid  her  in  a  green  corner  of  the  churchyard,  amid 


204  When  Pan  Pipes 

long  grass  and  ancient  stones,  beneath  the  shadow  of  Church 
Clock;  and  the  busy  tide  of  life  swept  up,  closed  over,  and 
flowed  on  its  way. 

Jerry  was  free.  Yet,  just  at  first,  like  a  caged  bird  re- 
gaining its  liberty,  he  hardly  knew  how  to  use  his  freedom. 
The  story  of  the  money  had  been  told  to  Mr.  Chubbe  and 
his  wife,  who,  when  necessity  arose,  could  guard  a  secret  like 
death  itself.  Together  they  had  drawn  the  bag  from  its  hid- 
ing place  and  investigated  its  contents.  There  was,  first  of 
all,  a  sealed  envelope  containing  the  widow's  will. 

"Dck,  dck!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Chubbe,  "to  think  on  it.  She 
must  ha'  gone  into  Channington  to  Lawyer  Todd  to  get  it 
done."  But  done  it  was ;  the  widow's  mark  witnessed,  and  all 
in  order,  bequeathing  everything  to  Jerry.  Beneath  lay  eighty 
pounds  in  gold  sovereigns,  and  Mrs.  Chubbe  could  only  murmur 
feebly,  "Dck— dck — dck— to  think  on  it." 

And  Jerry?  A  host  of  feelings  seemed  to  rush  through 
him,  the  chief  one  surprise  at  the  difference  in  himself.  Five 
years  ago  how  he  would  have  rejoiced,  with  what  elation  would 
he  have  started  off,  armed  with  a  safeguard  against  poverty. 
And  now — romance  had  fled;  the  money  was  money  only. 
He  would  go  to  London,  of  course,  but  soberly,  ready  to  take 
up  work  as  a  man  takes  work.  No  longer  Johnny-head-in-Air, 
nor  the  miller's  son;  just  a  boy  unfolding  into  a  man,  realising 
reality,  and  prepared  to  face  practical  difficulties,  the  first  being 
an  interview  with  Lady  Kezzy.  He  was  independent,  he 
wanted  no  one's  help;  but  he  did  want  her  to  know  that  his 
resolution  was  still  the  same  as  it  had  been  five  years  ago, 
and,  without  in  the  least  exposing  his  self-denial — which,  look- 
ing back,  he  knew  had  only  been  a  step  for  his  own  good — 
make  her  understand.  There  was  no  need.  My  lady,  after 
congratulating  him,  came  to  the  point. 

"Jerry,  why  didn't  you  accept  my  offer  years  ago?"  The 
colour  mounted  beneath  his  brown  skin.  He  made  no  answer. 

"Did  you  stay  because  you  thought  it  was  your  duty?"  He 
raised  his  truthful  brown  eyes  to  hers. 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  205 

"My  lady,  would  you  mind  if  I  didn't  answer  that?  You 
see,  I've  never  altered,  and  indeed,  indeed,  'twasn't  because 
I  didn't  want  to." 

And  my  lady  understood.  She  turned  the  conversation  into 
a  practical  channel. 

"Do  you  still  wish  to  enter  a  studio,  Jerry?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  would  tell 
me  of  one."  For  a  moment  she  looked  thoughtful. 

"The  best  thing,"  she  said  presently,  "will  be  to  write  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  my  old  drawing  master,  Signer  Ar- 
digny.  He  has  a  studio  and  will  no  doubt  assist  you  on  my 
recommendation,  and  your  own  merits,"  she  added  smilingly. 
"I'll  give  you  the  letter  now." 

She  rose,  and  going  to  a  side  table,  drew  ink  and  paper 
towards  her,  writing  busily.  A  silence  fell  in  the  lamplit 
room,  only  broken  by  the  dropping  of  embers,  and  the  scratch 
of  my  lady's  quill.  Suddenly  he  was  conscious  of  a  curious 
feeling;  his  heart  beat,  something  surged  in  his  head,  and  a 
thrill  ran  through  him,  like  the  sudden  contact  of  ice  water. 
It  was  so  quick,  that  he  hardly  realised  that  it  preceded  a  sound 
— the  sound  of  a  fresh  girlish  voice,  clear,  and  coming  nearer. 

"Aunt  Kezzy,  Aunt  Kezzy,  where  are  you?" 

Again  the  clutch  at  his  heart.  He  half  rose,  the  handle 
turned,  and  the  door  opened.  Jerry  stood  up,  a  mist  before 
him,  his  heart  beating  till  the  room  seemed  full  of  sound, 
and  he  knew  romance  had  come  back,  that  it  was  never 
dead. 

Framed  in  the  dark  oak  of  the  door  stood  a  fairy — white, 
white  was  her  dress  of  finest  muslin,  whiter  still  the  soft  neck 
and  arms  peeping  from  its  snowy  folds.  Blue,  blue,  her  eyes 
as  summer  cornflowers,  golden  the  long  curls  which  fell  around 
her — pale  gold  as  the  cornfields  beneath  azure  skies — and  the 
sound  of  her  voice  was  like  the  rippling  of  brooks  over  pebbly 
stones  on  a  hot  summer  day. 

"Aunt  Kezzy,  Aunt  Karen  says — "  she  broke  off,  seeing 
Jerry.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  didn't  know  you  were  engaged." 


206  When  Pan  Pipes 

She  drew  back,  the  door  closed,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  world 
was  gone.  Yet  deep  in  Jerry's  heart,  flung  in  that  moment, 
lay  a  seed,  and  it  fell  on  soil  made  ready  for  it.  In  the  days 
to  come  it  was  to  germinate  and  bud,  but  the  blossom  lay  hid 
in  the  future. 

My  lady  finished  her  letter,  and  handed  it  to  him  with  many 
injunctions.  So  the  first  step  was  taken.  It  was  Mr.  Chubbe 
who  made  the  second,  promising  to  take  charge  of  the  main 
sum,  and  bidding  him  see  Messrs.  Gardiner  and  Gardiner  at 
the  earliest  opportunity.  To  Mrs.  Chubbe  fell  the  third. 

"You  must  get  yourself  gentleman's  clothes,  child,  directly 
you  get  there,"  she  said.  "Spend  some  of  your  money  if 
needs  be,  it'll  pay  you  i'  the  end.  An'  if  pedlar  can't  give  you 
lodgin',  put  up  at  a  respectable  inn  till  you  hear  of  something. 
Her  busy  fingers  patched,  mended,  darned,  and  packed  his  car- 
pet bag.  The  farmer  went  to  Channington  next  market  day, 
and  brought  back  strange  contributions — brilliant  handkerchiefs 
and  cravats ;  finally  producing,  with  many  winks  and  chuckles, 
a  gold  fob  chain  fashioned  like  a  ribbon,  soft  and  pliable  and 
finished  with  an  onyx  seal. 

"It'll  do  to  wear  wi'  your  gentleman's  clothes,  laddie,"  he 
said,  presenting  it,  "for  'twas  bought  from  a  gentleman,  an' 
I'll  tell  you  how  I  come  by  it.  Mrs.  Plumtre  was  asking  me 
about  ye — you  was  always  a  favourite,  you  know,  laddie — an' 
by-'n^by  she  slipped  off  upstairs  an'  fetched  this.  Says  she, 
'You  take  it  to  him,  farmer — 'twas  my  boy's  once;  he  bought 
it  of  a  gentleman  who'd  come  down  i'  the  world,  an'  if  Jerry 
brings  him  back,  he  shall  ha'  another  'stead  o'  this.  An'  if 
he  doesn't — well — I'd  rather  he  than  any  one  else,  for  he's  a 
good  youth,  an'  if  he  can,  he'll  find  my  boy.  So  gi'  him  my 
blessin',  farmer,  an'  tell  him  I  know  he'll  do  his  best.'  So  'tis 
yours,  laddie,  in  trust  for  that  there  ne'er-do-well." 

Jerry's  heart  was  full;  but  for  being  seventeen,  the  tears 
might  have  fallen.  He  kept  them  back  and  took  the  gift  and 
the  trust. 

So,  in  the  dark  November  morning  he  said  good-bye  to 


The  Witch  Lifts  the  Curtain  207 

Cloudesley,  and  mounting  the  little  cart  behind  Jenny,  drove 
with  the  farmer  and  Betty — who  had  arrived  unexpectedly  a 
day  or  two  before,  having  been  sent  home  with  the  other  young 
ladies  to  avoid  an  epidemic  of  measles,  which  had  broken  out 
at  the  convent — into  Channington  to  meet  the  early  coach. 

It  brought  back  memories.  Margery,  never  heard  of  again ; 
daddy,  only  coming  in  dreams ;  the  witch,  gone,  never  to  return ; 
and  a  little  boy,  who  had  lived  nine  years  with  Loneliness,  and 
grown  to  love  her  so  dearly  that  the  parting  with  her  was 
almost  as  sharp  as  the  parting  with  the  farmer. 

The  stable  yard  was  unchanged;  just  the  same  bustle  and 
commotion,  the  same  people,  it  seemed  to  him,  Daniel  slightly 
older,  the  same  voices,  laughter,  tears,  the  same  long  tally-ho 
of  the  horn,  the  same  rattle  over  the  cobbles,  the  same  swing 
into  the  high  road,  the  same  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  only 
this  time  he  was  not  among  those  who  waved.  He  saw  the 
farmer's  red  face  as  they  turned,  Betty's  sparkling  one,  Mrs. 
Plumtre's  little  round  figure,  and  heard  her  shrill  good-byes, 
and  then,  hey !  for  the  long,  long  road,  and  London  City,  and 
all  the  mystical  future. 


Part  Two:     London 


Part  Two:   London 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  SWINEHERD  SEEKS   HIS  FORTUNE 

IT  was  past  six  o'clock  when  the  coach  neared  London.  The 
road  ran  by  the  little  hamlets  of  Seven  Kings  and  Romford, 
across  Chadwell  Heath,  through  the  forest,  and  by  the  marshes 
and  low  lying  land  which  stretched  for  miles  along  the  valley 
of  the  Lea.  Through  the  villages  of  Poplar,  Bow,  and  Hack- 
ney, and  the  lights  of  London  glimmered  ahead.  Vast,  shad- 
owy places  outlined  themselves  against  the  dark  sky,  faintly 
tinged  with  reflected  light.  Dim  steeples  and  domes  rose  like 
dream  castles,  the  hum  of  London  reached  him,  like  the  hum 
of  a  swarming  hive,  and  passengers  stirred,  seeking  wraps  and 
luggage. 

The  bells  of  Shoreditch  were  ringing  sweetly  as  they  clat- 
tered through  the  village,  and  in  a  few  minutes  had  reached 
the  eastern  side  of  the  city.  Through  Bishopsgate,  up  London 
Wall,  along  Cheapside,  skirting  London's  great  shadowy 
church,  down  Ludgate  Hill,  into  the  Strand,  and  with  a  cry 
and  a  "tally  ho!"  they  clattered  into  a  courtyard  as  St. 
Clement's  struck  eight. 

"Well  timed,  gentlemen,"  cried  Daniel,  pushing  aside  the 
heavy  leather,  and  with  slow  ponderous  steps  climbing  down 
the  ladder.  "An*  that  brings  my  record  ahead  for  the  year," 
he  added,  burying  his  face  in  a  foaming  tankard  tendered  by 
an  ostler,  who  watched  admiringly  as  the  pewter  tilted  higher 
and  higher,  and  Daniel,  draining  the  last  drop,  handed  it  back 
with  a  satisfied  smack. 

211 


212  When  Pan  Pipes 

Jerry  stood  for  a  few  moments ;  the  new  surroundings  were 
vastly  interesting,  and  he  was  loath  to  leave  the  familiar  faces 
of  Daniel  and  his  fellow  passengers  till  obliged.  One  by  one 
they  melted  away.  Daniel  shook  hands  and  disappeared 
Gathering  up  his  courage,  Jerry  lifted  his  bag,  consulted  the 
scrap  of  paper  containing  the  pedlar's  address,  and  walked  out 
of  the  courtyard. 

He  stood  awhile,  wondering  if  any  great  matter  was  in 
hand,  for  people  flocked  down  the  ill-paved  street,  lit  dimly 
by  lanterns,  all  intent,  seemingly,  on  business  or  pleasure. 
But  Jerry,  though  country  bred,  was  no  fool.  After  waiting 
some  few  minutes,  it  dawned  upon  him  that  this  was  Lon- 
don's usual  state.  He  laughed  a  little  at  his  own  stupidity, 
and  crossing  the  road,  started  in  earnest  for  his  destination. 

Out  of  the  main  thoroughfare  the  streets  were  narrow,  dark 
and  dirty.  A  few  straggling  loiterers  directed  him  occasion- 
ally, and  now  and  then  a  carriage,  with  powdered  footmen 
and  gorgeous  coachmen,  not  unlike  my  Lord  Cloudesley's  own, 
passed,  conveying  some  great  folk  to  Drury  Lane  or  the  Opera 
House  in  Covent  Garden.  Several  times  he  would  have  stayed 
to  gaze  open-mouthed  at  the  marvels  around  him,  but  one  of 
Mrs.  Chubbe's  many  admonitions  came  to  his  mind,  "Don't 
be  surprised  at  aught,  child;  keep  your  thoughts  to  yourself, 
an'  don't  be  'Hail  fellow,  well  met'  with  every  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Harry." 

He  had  complete  reliance  on  Mrs.  Chubbe — had  she  not 
lived  with  the  great  ones  of  the  earth?  Besides,  the  advice, 
to  his  mind,  carried  its  own  merits.  In  and  out,  twisting, 
turning,  asking,  at  last  he  came  to  where  several  streets  met, 
forming  a  kind  of  square,  tolerably  wide.  A  street  lamp  stood 
in  the  midst,  and  its  rays  fell  on  what  had  no  doubt  been  at 
some  time  a  nobleman's  house.  Three-sided  it  stood,  enclosing 
a  small  piece  of  ground,  round  which  ran  a  paved  path.  The 
middle  section  had  long  windows,  gleaming  darkly  in  the 
lamplight;  but  those  in  the  side  wings  were  closely  boarded 
up.  In  the  centre  of  the  right  building,  facing  the  square, 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        213 

was  a  heavy  door,  studded  with  nails  and  bearing  as  knocker 
a  man's  hand  grasping  an  iron  stancheon — probably  some  her- 
aldic device  connected  with  the  house's  former  occupants. 
Over  this  ancient  memento  ran  a  curiously  modern  inscription, 
"Reuben  Gade — Dealer  in  Antiquities." 

Now  the  final  venture  had  come,  Jerry  advanced  somewhat 
timidly,  and  lifting  the  massive  knocker,  gave  a  gentle  rap. 
He  waited,  then  repeated  the  knock.  A  voice  from  within,  un- 
mistakably the  pedlar's,  cried,  "Toby,  Toby  Dingle,  where  are 
you?"  followed,  after  a  short  interval,  by  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps, not  slow  like  the  widow's,  but  with  the  slowness  of  feet 
unwilling  to  be  brisk.  They  came  nearer,  the  catch  was  turned, 
the  door  opened  a  few  inches,  and  a  voice  spoke. 

"Who  is  it?    What  do  you  want?" 

"Is  Mr.  Gade  in?  Will  you  please  tell  him  that  it's  Jerry, 
Jerry  Dell,  from  Cloudesley?" 

"From  Cloudesley,"  the  voice  was  full  of  something  unde- 
finable,  "Cloudesley,"  it  repeated  monotonously,  and  was  si- 
lent. Presently  it  spoke  again.  "W — who — are  you  ?"  Jerry 
was  beginning  to  grow  impatient. 

"Mr.  Gade  knows  me ;  oh,  please  tell  him  I've  come." 

This  time  the  answer  was  an  eye,  which  peeped  cautiously 
round  the  edge  and  took  a  survey  evidently  satisfactory,  for 
the  door  was  opened,  disclosing  the  figure  of  a  man  wrapped 
in  a  loose  dressing-gown.  He  was  short  and  round.  Indeed, 
roundness  was  the  one  descriptive  adjective  summing  him  up. 
A  round  chubby  face,  singularly  childlike — round  blue  eyes, 
round  cheeks  pink  tinted,  and  a  round  head  covered  with  fair, 
almost  lint  white  hair — a  prepossessing  face,  a  face  which, 
somehow,  had  the  power  to  evoke  cheerful  mirth  and  light- 
heartedness,  and  Jerry  wondered  at  the  mystery  of  its  appear- 
ance. 

"Come  in,  I'll  tell  Mr.  Gade."  But  at  that  moment  the  pedlar 
emerged  from  the  lighted  distance  and  advanced  into  the 
shadow. 

"What  is  it,  Toby?"    Jerry  stepped  in. 


214  When  Pan  Pipes 

"It's  I,  Mr.  Gade;  Jerry  Dell,  from  the  cottage  at  Cloudes- 
ley.  You  told  me  to  come."  Reuben  Gade  threw  up  his 
hands  and  came  quickly  forward. 

"The  little  boy!  And  so  you  haf  kom  to  London.  Said  I 
not  so.  Kom  in,  kom  in."  He  caught  Jerry's  hand,  drawing 
him  along  the  wide  entrance.  Toby  closed  the  great  door 
and  followed,  his  loose  slippers  flopping  at  every  step.  The 
Jew  was  also  in  deshabille,  and  as  they  turned  the  corner 
Jerry  caught  his  breath. 

There  were  spaces  on  either  side,  dimly  dark,  stretching 
into  deep  shadows.  Shapeless  outlines  of  massive  furniture 
loomed  mysteriously,  soft  carpets  were  under  his  feet,  and 
there  was  a  curious  scent,  subtle,  indefinite,  suggestive  of 
the  East,  yet  also  of  gardens,  warm,  perfumed  rooms,  and 
vaguely  of  the  sweet  scent  used  by  the  ladies  of  Cloudesley  Hall. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  wing,  and  turning  to  the  right, 
came  into  the  main  hall  of  the  house.  Here,  between  the 
long  windows,  was  a  great  fireplace  of  dark  oak,  matching 
the  rest  of  the  woodwork.  It  rose  high  to  a  narrow  mantel- 
shelf, above  which  was  heavy  carving  and  an  escutcheon, 
once  emblazoned  with  coat  of  arms  and  crest.  In  front  of 
this  was  drawn  a  small  table  laid  for  a  meal.  Two  high- 
backed  chairs  stood  at  the  sides,  and  the  whole  scene  was  lit 
with  candelabra  and  side  sconces.  To  Jerry,  tired,  cold,  hun- 
gry, it  seemed  redolent  of  comfort  and  kindliness. 

"And  now,"  said  the  pedlar,  "we  will  haf  supper,  and  be 
warm  and  cheerful.  Another  chair,  Toby.  Kom,  sit  and  eat, 
and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  bustled  round  as  he  spoke,  laying  another  place,  then 
drawing  the  chair  fetched  by  Toby  to  the  fire,  thrust  Jerry 
into  it,  refusing  to  hear  a  word.  Presently  Toby  appeared 
from  some  distant  region  bearing  a  tray  of  smoking  dishes, 
and  a  pleasant  odour  of  roast  meat  and  vegetables  mingled 
with  the  more  romantic  one  before  mentioned. 

"But,  Mr.  Gade — "    Jerry's  remonstrance  was  cut  short. 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        215 

"Not  yet,  not  yet ;  when  you  haf  eaten."  The  warmth  and 
good  food,  supplemented  with  a  tankard  of  foaming  brown 
ale,  was  luxury  indeed ;  Jerry  hardly  knew  himself.  The  ped- 
lar refused  to  hear  any  words,  and  his  guests  had  time  to  look 
round  and  take  in  his  new  surroundings. 

The  hall  was  domed,  its  ceiling  lost  in  misty  shadow.  From 
either  end  sprang  a  wide,  low  staircase,  with  broad  balustrade 
and  richly  carved  banisters.  They  met  on  a  wide  gallery,  run- 
ning the  length  of  the  hall,  in  the  centre  of  which  rose  a  great 
arch  leading  to  another  spacious  hall  surrounded  with  doors. 
In  the  hall  below  was  a  similar  arch,  also  more  spaces  and 
doors  innumerable.  High  up,  in  a  corner  of  the  wing  he  had 
first  entered,  was  a  smaller  gallery,  which,  he  afterwards 
learned,  was  for  minstrels.  Doubtless,  many  a  stately  minuet, 
many  a  grave  sarabande  or  sprightly  gavotte,  had  been  danced 
on  the  polished  floor  beneath. 

The  first  course  was  followed  by  a  dish  of  wonderful  pas- 
tries, which  the  pedlar  attacked  with  vigour. 

"I  haf  a  sweet  tooth,"  he  said  apologetically.  "That  is  my 
French  mothaire." 

After  the  pastries  came  a  strange  preparation  of  cheese. 
Jerry,  remembering  Mrs.  Chubbe,  tasted  everything,  and  as 
far  as  possible  under  such  marvellous  circumstances,  showed 
no  surprise.  When  at  last  it  was  over,  his  host  gave  a  satis- 
fied sigh,  turned  his  chair  to  the  fire  and  beckoned  Jerry  to 
do  the  same.  Toby  cleared  the  table,  placed  glasses  and 
strange  bottles,  and  departed. 

"Be  quick,  Toby,"  said  the  pedlar,  nodding  kindly.  He  took 
a  huge  cigar  from  a  box,  lighted  it,  poured  out  a  glass  of  some 
pale  liquid,  and  settled  to  enjoyment.  "Now — tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Jerry  began,  from  the  widow's  death  onwards,  and  the  Jew 
listened  with  interest. 

"Poor  thing — poor  thing,"  he  said,  when  it  was  finished; 
"she  would  not  see  me  for  two — three — years." 


216  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  think,"  said  Jerry,  "she  was  afraid;  and  then,  you  see, 
we  had  no  money." 

"Ah,  no — ah,  no."  Reuben  smoked  on,  then  flicked  the  ash 
into  the  fire,  a  sterner  look  on  his  kindly  features.  "He  was 
a  bad  man,  and  she  lost  nothing  when  he  went.  But  there — " 
a  shrug  of  the  great  shoulders,  "she  could  not  see  it.  Ah — 
these  poor,  foolish  women.  And  yet,  we  would  not  haf  them 
else.  Poor  thing — poor  thing."  Again  there  was  silence; 
Toby's  voice  carolled  in  the  distance. 

Begone,  Dull  Care ;  I  prithee  bego-one  from  me, 
Begone,  Dull  Care;  too  long  hast  thou  tarried  with  me. 

And  Toby  himself  presently  appeared,  his  round  cheerful 
face  reminding  Jerry  curiously  of  those  friendly  faces  which, 
so  long  ago  it  seemed,  used  to  peep  at  him  over  silvery  fields 
and  dark  woods.  A  place  was  made,  and  thinking  the  time 
was  come,  he  broached  the  subject  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"Mr.  Gade,  would  you  mind,  I  mean,  could  you  tell  me 
where  I  could  get  a  room.  Mrs.  Chubbe  thought  you  would 
know.  If — if — "  Jerry  hesitated,  "if  it  could  be  near  here; 
you  see,  I  know  no  one  in  London — only  you — and — "  The 
Jew  put  out  a  great,  hairy  paw,  and  laid  it  gently  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"I  know,  I  know.  I  was  lonely  once — in  this  great  Lon- 
don. It  is  to  some  a  cruel  monster,  and  to  others  a  kind 
friend;  but  it  is  always  fickle — like  a  woman."  He  caught 
Toby's  eye.  A  glance  passed  between  them.  "Why  not — why 
not?"  he  murmured,  lapsing  into  silence.  But  it  was  not  un- 
broken. Toby's  behaviour,  indeed,  all  that  followed,  was  even 
stranger  than  that  which  had  gone  before.  Every  now  and 
then  a  low  chuckle  reached  Jerry's  ears.  The  Jew  frowned 
meditatively,  smoked  violently,  and  gazed  into  the  fire.  Jerry 
fidgetted,  time  was  getting  on.  He  was  screwing  up  his  cour- 
age to  speak,  when  his  host  roused. 

"This  room,  I  know  one.    It  is  near — very  near,  and  cheap ; 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        217 

oh,  yes,  it  is  cheap."  Toby  chuckled  loudly;  the  Jew  glared 
at  him. 

"It  is — "  He  paused.  "What  will  you  pay  for  board  and 
lodging  ?" 

Jerry  hesitated.  Three  pounds  a  month,  and  the  widow 
had  saved.  That  would  leave  him  fourteen  pounds  a  year 
without  touching  the  bag  of  savings.  Very  timidly  he  sug- 
gested it.  The  Jew  threw  up  his  hands,  and  Toby,  quiet  now, 
listened  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"Ach !  it  is  too  much.  They  are  not  robbers — they  are  my 
great  friends.  We  will  say — " 

Here  Toby  distinguished  himself  by  rolling  over,  hiding  his 
face  in  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  shaking  with  uncontrolled 
merriment.  The  Jew  watched  for  a  moment,  then  rose,  and 
punched  the  offender  furiously.  Toby  took  not  the  slightest 
notice,  and  presently  the  laughter  subsided  into  weak  chuckles. 
He  sat  straight,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  the  other. 

"You  know  you  will — you  know  you  will,"  he  gasped,  and 
Reuben,  with  a  parting  punch,  turned,  and  leaping  on  a  small, 
square  stool,  reached  to  the  high  mantelshelf. 

"Well,  then,  Toby  Dingle,  you  shall  not  tell  lies ;  I  will." 

He  took  down  two  bottles.  One  was  filled  with  large  golden 
beads,  the  other  contained  only  a  few.  From  the  former  he 
took  one,  and  solemnly  dropping  it  into  the  latter,  replaced 
the  bottle ;  then  went  back  to  his  chair.  Jerry  watched,  com- 
pletely mystified. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Jew,  "we  will  continue.  My  friend 
he  wants  five  shillings  a  week;  that  will  not  hurt  you,  and  it 
will  pay  him  well.  He  will  sometimes  want  you  to  walk  with 
him  and  talk  with  him,  but  not  moch — oh,  not  moch.  Will 
that  suit  you  ?" 

"Oh!"  Jerry's  face  was  puzzled.  The  sum  seemed  ridicu- 
lous. He  thought  of  the  widow,  but  commonsense  told  him 
that  London  was  more  expensive. 

"It  seems  too  little,  Mr.  Gade,"  he  said  at  length. 


218  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Ah,  no,  ah,  no—"  The  Jew  waved  his  hand  airily.  "It 
will  pay  him  well."  And  Toby  chuckled  again. 

"Of  course,"  Jerry  began,  "I  should  be  very  much  obliged." 

"Then  we  will  consider  it  settled,"  put  in  his  host,  with 
decision,  "and  Toby  shall  take  you  when  you  are  ready.  And 
in  the  morning  you  must  see  these  lawyers — Gardiner  and 
Gardiner,  I  think  you  said."  Jerry  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Gade ;  I  will  do  all  you  tell  me ; 
and  I'll  come  in  first  and  see  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Kom  whenever  you  like,"  returned  Reuben  cordially.  "No, 
no,  we  will  not  say  good-bye,  like  you  English  say.  We  will 
shake  hands  and  say,  'Gott  be  with  you.' " 

The  kindly  face  was  gravely  serious;  Jerry's  hand  was 
gripped  and  shaken  heartily.  Toby,  taking  a  silver  candle- 
stick, led  the  way.  When  they  reached  the  turn  of  the  great 
hall,  instead  of  making  for  the  entrance,  he  turned  towards 
the  staircase.  Wondering,  but  thinking  that  doubtless  another 
door  brought  them  nearer,  Jerry  followed.  Up  the  easy  steps, 
under  the  arch  to  the  left,  they  went  through  corridors  whose 
doors  led  heaven  knew  where,  and  everywhere  was  furniture, 
some  covered  with  white  cloths,  gleaming  ghost-like  in  the  dim 
light,  some  only  showing  dark  outlines.  Toby  waved  towards 
some  of  the  doors. 

"All  the  best's  in  there,"  he  said;  "the  finest  pictures  and 
carvings  and  sculpture." 

"It's  a  wonderful  place,"  said  Jerry. 

"Yes — and  Reuben's  a  wonderful  man."  They  had  come 
to  a  sharp  turn;  from  what  he  could  gather  they  were  over 
the  boarded  wing.  Toby  stopped,  and  taking  a  huge  bunch 
of  keys  from  some  hiding  place  in  the  dressing-gown,  inserted 
one,  and  flung  open  a  door. 

"There  you  are,"  he  cried,  his  eyes  twinkling  and  his  round 
face  beaming. 

"But,"  said  Jerry  bewildered,  "I  don't  understand.  Mr. 
Gade  said  a  friend." 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Toby  gleefully,  "don't  you  see?    He's 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        219 

the  friend.  He  likes  you,  and  he  spoke  of  you,  and  I  knew, 
from  when  you  first  came,  that  he  meant  this." 

"Oh,  but  I  can't."  Jerry  glanced  round  the  room ;  he  won- 
dered if  anything  at  Cloudesley  could  be  finer.  "I  couldn't 
take  so  much  from  him.  You  see,  I'm  a  stranger;  I 
couldn't—" 

"You  must."  Toby's  face  and  tone  were  serious.  "Reuben 
would  be  very  hurt,  indeed,  very  angry,  if  you  refused.  He's 
one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world,  but  if  anyone  offends  him, 
he'll  not  forgive  them  easily;  and,  you  take  my  word  for  it, 
if  you  say  anything  to  him  about  not  staying,  he'll  let  you  go, 
but  you'll  never  be  his  friend  again." 

Jerry  thought.  Fortunately  for  his  pride,  he  had  very  little 
idea  of  the  cost  of  living.  Five  shillings  a  week  did  not  seem 
much,  especially  to  so  rich  a  man.  On  the  other  hand  there 
was  the  empty  bedroom ;  perhaps,  after  all,  it  might  go  further 
than  he  thought.  But  conscience  whispered  that  the  offer  was 
generous,  and  something  deeper  still  showed  him  the  pedlar's 
kindly  heart,  and  he  understood  how  easy  it  is  to  wound  a  thing 
so  soft  and  gentle. 

"It's  very,  very  kind  of  Mr.  Gade,  and  of  you  too.  I  should 
like  to  go  straight  back  and  thank  him,  if  you  think  he  wouldn't 
mind." 

"Wait  till  the  morning,"  advised  Toby ;  "he's  got  his  treas- 
ures now,  and  won't  want  to  be  disturbed." 

"Treasures  ?"  echoed  Jerry. 

"Yes."  Toby  chuckled  again.  "He  sits  up  half  the  night 
reading  old  books  and  manuscripts  and  going  through  his  col- 
lections. He  loves  them  like  children.  I've  often  seen  him 
send  away  a  good  customer  because  he  couldn't  bring  himself 
to  part  with  something  or  other  he  wanted.  Oh,  Reuben's  a 
queer  fish,  I  tell  you."  Jerry  made  a  plunge. 

"Are  you — I  mean,  do  you  live  here?"    Toby  nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  live  here.  He  couldn't  do  without  me.  I  know 
where  everything  is,  and  can  manage  that  business,"  he  jerked 
a  thumb  towards  the  boarded  wing,  "as  well  as  he  can,  better 


220  When  Pan  Pipes 

p'raps,"  he  added  with  a  wink.  "I'm  not  so  soft."  Which 
statement  Jerry  questioned.  "Sometimes,"  Toby  was  wound 
up,  "he'll  pack  his  traps  and  go  off  hawking  wares  for  weeks 
together.  Says  he's  fought  London  long  enough  and  wants 
to  be  alone  in  the  country.  So  off  he  goes,  and  I  expect  him 
when  I  see  him ;  he  knows  it's  all  right.  The  house  has  strong 
bars  and  iron  shutters.  No  chance  for  thieves."  Jerry  for- 
got his  fatigue  in  listening.  Toby  suddenly  remembered. 

"I  say,  though,  I'm  talking  and  keeping  you  up."  He  lit 
a  tall  candle  from  his  own.  "You'll  find  your  bed's  aired 
all  right.  I  saw  to  that  when  you  first  came;  I  knew  what 
would  happen,"  with  another  chuckle.  "Good-night.  Hope 
you'll  sleep  well.  I'll  call  you  in  the  morning." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  to  both  came  that  instinct  which 
precedes  friendship.  Jerry  watched  him  go  down  the  corri- 
dor ;  his  song  reached  him,  receding  in  the  distance.  "Begone, 
Dull  Care — I  prithee,  begone  from  me."  Closing  the  door,  he 
took  a  survey  of  his  new  surroundings,  beginning  at  the  big 
bow  window.  It  jutted  out,  half  across  a  narrow  road.  A 
street  lamp,  at  its  last  gasp  for  want  of  oil,  flickered,  but 
showed  very  little.  Jerry  had  an  idea  that  the  street  was 
squalid  and  poor.  Not  so  his  room.  Softly  carpeted,  hung 
with  rich  curtains  and  furnished  handsomely,  it  was  quite  fit, 
its  inmate  thought,  for  even  the  earl.  How  came  he  to  be  in 
such  luxury?  Jerry  shook  his  head  thoughtfully  as  he  un- 
dressed, and  climbed  into  the  high,  darkly  hung  bed,  soft  as  a 
box  mattress  and  down  bed  could  make  it.  Before  the  lamp 
gave  its  last  flicker  he  was  asleep. 

Used  to  country  hours,  he  lay  awake  some  time  waiting  for 
Toby's  knock.  In  the  twilight  of  a  November  morning  his 
surroundings  seemed  more  wonderful  than  ever.  A  great 
swinging  pier  glass  in  one  corner  caught  a  gleam  of  light  from 
somewhere,  making  a  steely  glimmer  in  the  blackness.  As 
dawn  came,  things  grew  vague,  then  shadowy,  and  finally  set- 
tled down  to  their  day-time  shapes.  In  them,  too,  Jerry  saw 
life,  but  it  was  the  life  of  old  things,  a  retrospective,  thought- 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune         221 

ful  musing.  They  were  not  interested  in  him,  nor  in  anything 
round ;  theirs  were  remembrances  of  old  castles  and  palaces, 
of  noble  knights  and  gentle  ladies,  of  terrors,  of  hideous  things 
which  belonged  to  darker  ages,  of  romance  and  love,  of  moon- 
light meetings,  of  runaway  matches.  Ah!  if  they  could  only 
tell  him  stories. 

He  pushed  open  the  casement  window;  the  street  was,  as 
he  had  thought,  narrow,  squalid,  with  a  few  poor  houses  oppo- 
site. Looking  alongside,  he  could  see  that  what  few  windows 
there  were  were  also  boarded  up.  In  the  centre  of  the  wing 
a  door  opened  to  the  street,  and  over  it  hung  three  massive 
gilt  balls.  He  wondered  what  they  meant,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  had  something  in  common  with  the  knocker 
on  the  front  entrance. 

Toby's  cheery  voice  called  him  from  the  window.  He 
dressed  hastily,  realising  that  London  air  had  a  curious  raw- 
ness, untempered  by  the  soft  mists  and  damp,  decaying  scents 
of  the  country.  A  wet  fog  hung  round,  filling  the  room ;  from 
outside  came  footsteps,  the  voices  of  passers-by,  muffled,  dis- 
tant, yet  distinct.  The  narrow  street  was  full  of  echoes,  and 
from  far  away  came  a  sound  as  of  a  giant  rousing.  It  was 
London  awaking  for  the  day,  humming  her  song  of  shops  and 
trade,  of  greatness  and  wealth,  and  Jerry,  hearing  it,  grew 
drunk  with  its  intoxicating  witchery.  Romance  was  there,  ro- 
mance of  life,  of  youth,  of  strength,  of  power  to  conquer. 
It  ran  through  his  veins,  thrilling,  calling,  drawing  him  to 
London's  great  heart.  For  like  a  syren,  her  song  goes  on  for 
ever,  and  for  ever  men  will  hear  her  voice,  calling — calling — 
bringing  desire  and  longing,  and  only  those  who  are  deaf  to 
its  beauty  can  see  the  dark  depths  beneath,  can  hear  the  under- 
current, which  tells  of  misery,  cruelty,  hate,  and  coarse  sur- 
roundings. 

At  eighteen  one's  blood  is  liquid  fire,  and  Jerry,  filled  with 
excitement,  found  his  way  down  to  the  great  hall.  Though 
lacking  a  woman's  touch,  it  was  spick  and  span,  even  as  Mrs. 
Chubbe's  kitchen,  glittering  with  beeswax,  soap,  and  elbow 


222  When  Pan  Pipes 

grease.  Toby's  work,  no  doubt,  and  Jerry  registered  a  vow 
to  assist  him  from  henceforth. 

A  blazing  fire  roared  up  the  chimney,  white  damask  and 
sparkling  silver  adorned  the  table.  High  above  hung  a  dim, 
nebulous  vapour,  giving  the  domed  hall  a  strange  loftiness. 
Through  the  window  grey  daylight  struggled  in,  trying  in  vain 
to  extinguish  the  cheery  gleam  of  candles  on  the  table.  Toby 
opened  a  window,  the  roar  of  London  grew  louder,  and  a 
great  gust  of  fog  burst  in  triumphantly. 

Oh,  the  wonder  of  it  all.  Even  the  pedlar,  busy  brewing 
something  which  gave  out  a  strong,  fragrant  aroma — Jerry 
afterwards  knew  it  for  coffee — appeared  as  some  friendly 
genie,  while  Toby  only  needed  a  turban  to  become  at  once 
his  slave,  bearing  silver  dishes  heaped  with  precious  stones 
and  gold.  Jerry  was  meeting  romance  face  to  face. 

His  first  act  after  shaking  hands  was  to  tender  thanks  for 
the  kindly  offer.  Reuben  accepted  them  with  as  much  grati- 
tude in  his  soft  eyes  as  in  Jerry's  brown  ones;  then  waved 
them  aside  and  began  planning  for  the  day. 

"You  shall  see  these  lawyers — that  is  first.  Then,  to  the 
studio.  Toby  shall  take  you  to  Messrs.  Gardiner,  and  after 
you  shall  go  alone.  It  is  goot  to  be  alone  when  one  does  busi- 
ness ;  one  does  not  want  others." 

Conversation  soared  high,  into  unknown  regions  of  politics 
and  art,  while  Jerry  sat  humbly  by,  longing  to  take  his  part  in 
this  world  of  men  and  men's  thoughts.  He  dressed  himself  in 
his  best,  knowing  already  that  they  were  the  clothes  of  a  coun- 
tryman, and  determined  to  pay  an  early  visit  to  the  nearest 
shops. 

With  the  opening  of  the  door  came  the  sense  of  being  part 
of  the  roar  of  London;  even  their  voices  helped  it.  They 
turned  through  winding  streets.  Now  and  then  a  milkmaid, 
taking  her  empty  pails  to  the  farmhouses  round  Bloomsbury, 
passed  them.  Street  hawkers,  crying  "artichokes"  or  "hot 
pies,"  took  their  way  citywards ;  business  men,  riding  in  from 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune         223 

the  suburbs  of  Holloway  and  Pentonville,  dismounted  and 
threw  their  reins  to  waiting  ostlers,  with  straw  swathed  legs 
and  corresponding  straws  in  their  mouths.  Urchins  threw 
cartwheels  on  the  chance  of  odd  pennies  or  jobs,  and  a  few 
orange  girls  nodded  to  them  as  they  went  by.  Everything  in 
the  murky  gloom  was  hazy  and  indistinct,  even  the  yellow  lamp- 
lights burned  mysteriously. 

Across  the  Strand,  into  the  heart  of  the  roar,  then  out  of 
it,  to  a  world  of  sodden  grassy  paths,  leafless  trees  and  ancient 
walls.  Here  the  fog  hung  thick  and  low,  the  roar  became  a 
distant  humming,  a  witch's  song,  a  syren's  call.  Strange  fig- 
ures appeared  suddenly  through  the  enveloping  veil,  black 
robed,  grey  wigged,  and  carrying  important  looking  rolls,  then 
vanished  into  nothingness;  outlines  of  great  buildings  loomed 
upon  them,  receding  again  as  they  went.  Toby  never  faltered ; 
how  he  knew  his  way  was,  of  all  the  marvellous  things,  most 
marvellous.  Presently  he  turned  up  a  narrow,  paved  court 
and  stopped. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said.  "Reuben  told  me  to  leave  you, 
but  you'll  find  me  somewhere  hereabouts  when  you've  done. 
You'd  never  find  your  way  in  this  fog.  Sure  you're  all  right  ?" 
he  added  anxiously,  and  Jerry,  suppressing  horrible  qualms, 
answered  sturdily: 

"Quite  all  right.  And  Toby,  don't  wait.  I  can  find  my 
way  to  the  studio,  and  they  may  keep  me  a  long  while  here." 
Toby  nodded  approval. 

"All  right.  Then  I'll  go."  He  gave  him  new  directions, 
then  vanished  down  the  court.  Jerry  gathered  his  courage 
together  and  lifted  the  heavy  knocker.  It  fell  with  a  thud, 
which  seemed  to  wake  every  echo  of  London.  They  clustered 
round  him,  mingling  with  the  quick  beating  of  his  heart,  and 
the  distant  call,  mocking,  taunting.  "You,  Jerry  Dell — "  they 
cried,  "you— country  boy — clodhopper — who  wants  to  be  a 
gentleman — ha — ha — " 

In  the  midst  of  the  din  the  door  was  thrown  back  by  a 


224  When  Pan  Pipes 

deferential  page ;  Jerry  turned,  and  all  the  deference  was  gone. 
Grinning  insolently,  he  stuck  his  tongue  into  his  cheek  and  did 
a  few  steps  of  a  warlike  dance  on  the  mat. 

"Veil,  young  Hodge,  an'  oo  may  you  be  a-vanting  of?" 

"My  name's  not  Hodge,"  said  Jerry,  "it's  Dell."  The  imp 
in  buttons  rocked  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"Oh,  ain't  it,  though — then  it  oughter  be.  P'raps  you're 
Mister  Dell — oh,  my!"  Another  silent  convulsion,  and  Jerry, 
conscious  of  his  appearance,  reddened  angrily. 

"I  want  to  see  Messrs.  Gardiner  and  Gardiner."  The  imp 
became  a  page  boy,  but  a  page  boy  with  a  wicked  grin. 

"Yes,  sir,  shall  I  take  yer  card,  sir  ?" 

"I  haven't  got  a  card."  Once  more  Jerry  became  profoundly 
aware  of  his  defects.  The  goblin  page  turned,  and  was  once 
more  convulsed  with  inward  merriment. 

"'E  ain't  got  a  card — a  card — oh,  my  poor  sides — they'll 
split  if  'e  stays.  'Ow'd  yer  leave  the  country,  young  Hodge? 
'Spect  yer  makin'  a  mistake,  an'  it's  the  'ousekeeper  yer  vants. 
Round  the  corner,  'ousekeeper's  rooms — ta-ta." 

The  door  banged  to  and  wrath  rose  in  Jerry.  Forgetful 
of  his  clothes,  himself,  everything  but  his  errand,  he  knocked 
again — furiously  this  time.  The  door  opened  a  chink,  and 
the  imp's  head  appeared,  with  an  expression  of  mock  terror 
on  it. 

"Ho — at  it  agin,  young  Hodge.  An'  vot — "  With  a  quick 
stride  Jerry  pushed  open  the  door,  seized  the  urchin  by  the 
collar,  and  gave  him  a  shake.  The  sham  expression  turned  to 
a  real  one. 

"Now,  look  here,  master  pageboy,"  he  lifted  him  as  he 
would  lift  a  little  worrying  dog,  shaking  him  gently,  "I  don't 
like  jokes.  Go  and  tell  your  master  that  Mr.  Dell  would  be 
glad  to  see  him  if  he  can  spare  time."  The  urchin,  released, 
grinned  again. 

"Yer  ain't  as  green  as  yer  look,  young  Hodge."  Jerry  made 
a  stride,  and  he  vanished  up  the  staircase,  presently  returning 
by  way  of  the  broad  balustrading,  and  beckoned  a  grubby  fin- 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        225 

ger.  Jerry  followed,  and  with  a  mocking  bow  of  respect,  he 
flung  open  the  door  and  announced  loudly,  "Mr.  Dell." 

An  elderly  man,  tall  and  thin,  wearing  long  mutton-chop 
whiskers  and  a  preoccupied  air  of  weariness,  rose  and  bowed. 
Jerry  returned  the  bow. 

"Be  seated,  Mr.  Dell,  I  pray,"  said  the  bewhiskered  one, 
pulling  a  chair  forward  and  dropping  back  again  into  his 
own,  as  though  overcome  with  the  exertion.  For  a  few  min- 
utes he  sat  silently  fondling  the  whiskers  and  gazing  abstract- 
edly into  mid  air.  Jerry  waited,  then  opened  the  ball. 

"I  believe,  sir,  you  knew  my  father  many  years  ago — Jeremy 
Dell." 

"Ha — "  the  lawyer  roused  slightly,  "Jeremy  Dell,  to  be  sure, 
to  be  sure."  Jerry  continued. 

"I  am  his  son.  You  have  been  sending  money  regularly, 
I  believe,  to  Mrs.  Hagges  for  me  ?" 

"Ha — yes.  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  So  you're  Jerry  Dell's 
son."  The  abstracted  glance  became  more  human. 

"Yes,  sir.  And  you  see,  Mrs.  Hagges  is  dead,  so  will  you 
let  me  have  the  money  instead?  It's  three  pounds  a  month,  I 
think." 

The  lawyer  showed  no  signs  of  absent-mindedness  now,  he 
was  alert. 

"Three  pounds  a  month.  Ha!  I  suppose  you  know  there 
is  considerably  more  than  that?"  Jerry  opened  his  eyes. 
"Your  father  left  a  thousand  pounds  with  us — from  the  in- 
terest, which  is  good,  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  sending,  as 
you  say,  three  pounds  a  month ;  but  the  rest  has  accumulated ; 
it  is  about  sixty-five  pounds  a  year  at  present."  Jerry's  eyes 
shone.  There  would  be  no  difficulty  about  paying  Reuben 
more  now. 

"But,"  the  lawyer  continued,  "you  must,  of  course,  prove 
your  identity." 

"I  think  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that,  sir;  you  see, 
Mrs.  Hagges  has  left  me  a  large  sum  of  money."  The  lawyer 
stared. 


226  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Ha,  you're  a  fortunate  young  man." 

"And  if  you  will,  sir,"  continued  Jerry,  "I  should  be  glad 
if  you  would  take  charge  of  it,  and  let  me  have  the  interest 
on  it  to  use.  Then  there's  the  cottage."  He  dived  into  the 
carpet  bag  and  produced  rolls  of  paper  and  the  heavy  bag. 
The  lawyer  drew  his  chair  in  closer  and  beckoned  his  client 
to  do  the  same. 

"A  cottage  too?  Ha,  it  sounds  interesting;  almost,  I  might 
say,  romantic."  For  an  hour  or  more  they  were  buried  in 
business.  Jerry,  emerging,  felt  as  though  he  had  learned  a 
lifetime's  knowledge.  At  the  end  of  the  time  the  lawyer  pushed 
his  chair  from  the  table,  and  crossing  his  legs,  lay  back. 

"I  am  glad,  Mr.  Dell,  to  have  met  you,"  he  said;  "also, 
that  although  our  guardianship  is  ended,  you  are  still  willing 
to  trust  us  with  your  affairs.  At  present,  it  seems,"  he  smiled 
frostily,  "that  you  are  in  no  need  of  money,  but  London's  a 
large  city,  an  expensive  one,  and  young  men  are  young  men. 
There  is  a  clause  in  the  will  which,  perhaps  you  do  not  know, 
provides  that  the  pieces  of  sculpture  executed  by  your  father 
in  his  lifetime,  can  be  sold  if  necessary,  with  one  exception, 
that  is — "  Jerry  started  up. 

"The  casts,  sir,  do  you  say?  My  father's  work?  Oh, 
where  are  they?  Let  me  have  them — not  to  sell,  of  course." 
Mr.  Gardiner  silenced  him  with  an  uplifted  hand. 

"Not  so  fast,  Mr.  Dell;  I  fear  I  have  not  made  myself 
understood.  The  pieces  are  not  in  our  hands.  Your  father 
thought  fit,"  here  the  tone  grew  icy,  "to  entrust  them  to  a 
fellow  artist,  a  man  called  Gallagher,  a  worthless,  good-for- 
nothing  rascal.  Some  years  ago,  the  fellow  was  hard  up; 
in  fact,  I  may  say,  penniless,  and  probably  the  temptation 
proved  too  great ;  he  raised  money  on  the  works  left  in  trust, 
no  doubt  meaning  to  redeem  them  at  some  future  time,  which 
time  never  came,"  he  added  drily.  Jerry  looked  bewildered. 

"Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  my  father's  work  is  lost,  sold?" 
The  lawyer  coughed. 

"Well,  hardly  perhaps  what  you  might  call  sold.    In  Lon- 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        227 

don  we  have  an  institution  commonly  called  'the  poor  man's 
bank,'  to  speak  plainly,  a  pawnshop." 

"I  see,"  replied  Jerry  gravely ;  "you  mean  that  if  the  pawn- 
broker has  not  sold  them  I  can  buy  them  back  ?" 

"Exactly,"  replied  the  lawyer,  still  more  drily;  "though 
whether  you  can  do  so  depends  upon  certain  conditions.  The 
pawn  tickets  not  being  forthcoming — they  were  probably  burnt 
with  the  rubbish — you  are  at  the  mercy  of  the  pawnbroker. 
Moreover,  which  again  you  may  not  know,  your  father's  work 
has,  since  his  death,  acquired  value.  It  is  possible  that  even 
your  total  wealth  may  not  be  sufficient.  The  statue  of  Pan 
alone,  I  understood,  was  valued  at  five  hundred  pounds,  some 
years  since."  Pan!  How  the  name  conjured  up  scenes  of 
childhood.  For  a  minute  Jerry  sat  quiet,  filled  with  memories. 
Then  commonsense  returned. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  to  find  the  pawnbroker  who  bought 
them?"  he  asked.  The  lawyer  drew  a  massive  parchment- 
bound  volume  towards  him. 

"It  so  happens,  Mr.  Dell,  that  I  can  tell  you  myself.  I  was 
interested  in  your  father.  He  struck  me  as,  well,  as  a  man 
with  a  romantic  past.  Not  that  I  know  anything  of  his  life," 
he  added  hastily,  "oh,  dear  me,  no,  but — "  he  stole  a  glance 
from  under  drooping  lids  at  Jerry,  "you  may  find  it  an  advan- 
tage, young  man,  to  investigate  your  father's  history.  Well, 
as  I  said,  I  was  interested;  more  especially  as,  in  spite  of  all 
we  could  urge,  he  refused  to  leave  the  things  with  us.  We 
kept  an  eye  on  them,  and  though  powerless  to  prevent  the  sale 
— they  were  left  unconditionally  with  Gallagher — we  traced 
them  to  a  well  known  establishment.  It  is  owned  by  a  wealthy 
man,  one  Reuben  Gade,  a — " 

"Reuben  Gade!"  Jerry  started  to  his  feet.  "Why— I  live 
there."  The  lawyer  lifted  his  hands  in  amazement. 

"Romance,  romance — "  he  murmured.  "Ha,  our  wonder- 
ful lives.  Mr.  Dell,"  he  turned  solemnly  to  Jerry,  "I  advise 
you  to  go  straight  back  to  Reuben  Gade;  lose  no  time,  and 
inquire  of  him  as  to  the  history  of  those  works  of  art." 


228  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  will,  indeed,"  replied  Jerry  fervently,  "and  Reuben  will 
treat  me  fairly,  I  know.  Good-bye,  sir,  and  thank  you  very 
much  for  your  kindness." 

The  lawyer  rose  and  shook  hands  amicably,  if  somewhat 
flabbily ;  then,  touching  a  bell,  he  opened  a  door,  saw  his  visitor 
out,  and  returned  to  his  musings. 

Toby  was  waiting  at  the  end  of  the  court;  after  all,  he 
had  not  found  the  courage  to  leave  his  friend.  But  studios 
were  out  of  the  question;  with  a  hasty  explanation,  they 
turned  homewards.  The  curtain  of  fog  was  lifting — lifting, 
and  behind  it  a  clear  November  sun  was  shining.  They  had 
come  from  the  further  end  of  the  court,  and  as  Jerry  raised 
his  eyes,  something  gleamed  between  the  trees.  A  ribbon  of 
light  it  seemed,  and  he  knew  it  for  London's  great  river.  For 
a  moment  all  else  was  forgotten;  silently  he  touched  Toby's 
arm  and  drew  him  nearer,  till  the  gardens  merged  into  mud- 
banks  and  landing  stages,  and  the  broad  murky  river,  flecked 
with  dull  gold  where  the  chill  wintry  sun  caught  it,  rolled  by  in 
solemn  splendour.  Yet,  it  too  had  a  mocking  note. 

Jerry  could  have  watched  all  day,  magic  was  round  him; 
but  for  Toby  the  river  was  an  everyday  thing,  and  at  last  he 
reminded  his  companion  of  the  time.  It  was  noon  as  they 
reached  the  Strand,  and  crossed  the  human  tide  making  its 
way  towards  eating-houses  and  inns,  with  no  thought  save 
only  of  its  stomach.  Fragrant  scents  came  on  the  keen  air, 
of  steaks  grilling,  of  onions  frizzling,  of  sausages  gently  bub- 
bling, and  huge  sirloins  turning  and  twisting  before  mighty 
fires,  and  Jerry,  too,  had  to  descend  from  Olympian  heights 
and  confess  to  a  healthy  growing  lad's  hunger. 

Although  Toby  seemed  to  know  all  the  business  of  the  place, 
some  instinct  of  refinement  told  Jerry  that  the  discussion  of 
such  strictly  private  affairs  should  be  confined  to  those  who 
were  already  cognisant  of  them.  He  had  to  control  his  im- 
patience till  after  supper,  for  the  Jew  was  busy  with  a  wealthy 
customer  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  not,  therefore,  until  Toby 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune         229 

had  carried  away  the  empty  dishes  and  Reuben's  big  cigar  was 
lit  that  the  opportunity  came. 

"Well,"  there  was  a  twinkle  in  the  kindly  eye  which  showed 
that  Jerry's  impatience  had  not  passed  unnoticed,  "and  how 
went  the  business  ?"  He  listened  with  smiling  interest  as  Jerry 
poured  out  the  amazing  tale;  but  the  smile  grew  less,  a  look 
of  gravity  took  its  place ;  it  was  accompanied  by  a  sterner  ex- 
pression. Presently  he  thrust  back  his  chair  and  stood  up. 

"They  were  not  his  to  sell."  Throwing  the  unfinished  cigar 
into  the  fire,  he  paced  angrily  up  and  down,  as  though  to  con- 
trol himself,  finally  bringing  up  by  Jerry's  chair  and  laying  a 
big  soft  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  knew  it  not,  mein  yongling."  There  was  a  wistful  touch 
in  the  voice.  "He  told  me  they  were  left  to  him — that  he  was 
penniless — ach! — such  a  tale.  And  I,  like  a  fool,  believed 
him." 

"But  it  doesn't  really  matter  what  he  was,"  cried  Jerry, 
turning  and  jumping  up.  "The  things,  they  are  all  that  mat- 
ters, and  you'll  let  me  buy  them  back,  Mr.  Gade,  won't  you? 
Oh,  I  know  you  will,"  he  added,  for  there  was  something  in 
the  kind  dark  face,  the  gentle  eyes,  which  raised  a  momentary 
doubt  in  his  mind.  "I'll  pay  anything,  all  I've  got,  and  I'll 
work,  oh,  I'll  work;  for  you  know  they're  worth  more  than 
anything  in  the  world  to  me,  since  I've  known  they're  in  exist- 
ence." He  paused,  waiting  for  the  answer.  It  was  some 
time  before  it  came,  and  the  doubt  grew  to  a  fear.  Slowly 
the  Jew  turned  away. 

"They  are  not  here;  they  are  gone." 

"Gone !"  echoed  Jerry  sharply.  "Gone !"  Then,  as  the  deal- 
er's rights  dawned,  reason  told  him  that  no  shadow  of  injustice 
could  rest  upon  him.  Not  so  did  Reuben  regard  it.  There 
was  such  a  look  of  trouble  in  his  face  that  Jerry's  heart  went 
out  to  him. 

"Don't  worry,  Mr.  Gade,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  can  tell 
me  who  bought  them."  The  Jew  shook  his  head  sadly. 


230  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  know  not,"  he  said;  then,  half  turning,  he  beckoned. 
"Kom,  I  will  tell  you.  Two  heads  are  better  than  one,  espe- 
cially when  that  one  is  old  and  silly,"  he  added,  smiling,  "and 
we  will  put  them  together." 

He  lighted  another  cigar,  and  sat  back  in  the  great  arm- 
chair. Toby  entering,  was  dismissed  with  a  silent  wave  of 
the  hand.  Jerry  leaned  against  the  dark  wood  mantelpiece  and 
listened. 

"It  was  last  summer.  One  hot  morning  a  gentleman  came 
in.  He  was  a  great  nobleman." 

"How  did  you  know?  Did  he  tell  you  his  name?"  inter- 
rupted Jerry,  eagerly. 

"No,"  the  Jew  shook  his  head,  "it  was  written  in  his  face, 
and  I  see  many  in  my  life.  Well,  he  asked,  had  I  any  sculp- 
ture— clay,  stone,  bronze,  anything.  It  was  a  strange  request, 
but  I  took  him  upstairs  and  showed  him  all  I  had,  which  was 
not  much,  except  that  for  which  you  ask.  He  was  long,  and 
I  watch,  and  make  my  little  romance.  He  was  old,  and  sad, 
there  was  trouble  in  his  face  and  loneliness.  Ach,  my  friend, 
I  say  to  myself,  you  haf  loved,  you  haf  lost,  but  death  has 
not  taken  all,  there  is  hope  in  your  eyes.  And,  even  as  I 
watched,  it  sprang  to  life.  Something  rolled  back,  and  I  saw 
the  sunlight  dawn.  His  hand,  so  thin  and  wrinkled,  yet  the 
hand  of  an  aristocrat,  rested  on  the  statue  of  Pan.  I  saw  it 
tremble;  the  trembling  spread;  he  turned  to  me  as  if  to  ask 
my  pardon.  'I  fear  I  must  trouble  you  to  wait,  Mr.  Gade, 
while  I  recover  myself ;  I  arn  not  so  young  as  I  was,  and  the 
heat  of  the  day  has  overcome  me.'  I  gave  him  a  chair  and 
some  liqueur  and  left  him,  poor  gentleman,  for  I  knew  it  was 
not  heat  or  age;  it  was  just  the  flood  of  hope.  When  I  re- 
turned he  was  standing  up — quite  recovered.  'There  are  cer- 
tain things  I  would  buy  of  you,  Mr.  Gade/  he  said,  'if  you  will 
kindly  tell  me  your  price;  this  one  especially' — that  one  was 
the  Pan.  And  then  came  that  witch — "  He  emphasised  the 
words  with  a  bang  on  the  table  which  made  Jerry  jump,  and 
brought  Toby's  face  to  the  door.  "That  witch — Temptation. 


The  Swineherd  Seeks  His  Fortune        231 

Ach,  mein  yongling" — such  a  grave,  sweet  face  it  was  now — "I 
am  mizaire,  I  like  money  so  well,  and  it  was  a  struggle.  I 
knew  I  could  ask  moch.  'I  will  consult  my  books,  my  lord,' 
I  said;  and  then,  below,  I  wrestled  with  her,  that  witch,  till 
she  fled.  But  it  was  one  great  fight,  and  then  I  went  to  my 
lord,  and  without  one  word  he  paid  me  what  I  asked.  There 
was  no  address.  'See  that  they  are  packed,  Mr.  Gade,'  he  said, 
'and  I  will  send  this  afternoon.' " 

"And  didn't  you  ask  ?"  questioned  Jerry  eagerly. 

"No!"  The  Jew  hesitated.  "He  did  not  wish  it  known 
evidently,  and" — the  dark  eyes  looked  straight  into  Jerry's — 
"a  gentleman's  wishes  should  be  respected.  But" — again  the 
hesitation;  Jerry  leaned  forward  breathlessly — "but,  after  he 
was  gone,  I  looked  at  the  things ;  it  was  perhaps  idle  curiosity," 
he  added  apologetically,  "we  are  but  frail,  and  there,  in  the 
corner,  were  initials,  G.  R.,  and  the  date."  Jerry's  face  fell. 

"G.  R.,"  he  repeated  wonderingly,  "but  they  were  not  my 
father's  initials — " 

"Maybe,  maybe,"  replied  the  Jew;  "and  yet,  perhaps,  who 
knows,  they  may  have  been  his  father's." 

The  tale  was  told.  In  vain  Jerry  questioned,  surmised. 
Reuben  could  add  nothing,  and  at  last  the  subject  was  dis- 
missed. Toby  was  summoned  and  the  evening  passed  as  be- 
fore. Only,  at  the  back  of  Jerry's  mind,  lay  a  firm  determina- 
tion that,  as  he  grew  older,  more  experienced  in  the  ways  of 
men  and  cities,  he  would  find  his  father's  work  and  the  meaning 
of  those  unknown  initials. 

A  strange  impulse  came  over  him  as  he  undressed.  The 
tiny  bag  hanging  round  his  neck  had  grown  to  be  part  of 
himself,  and  passed  as  unnoticed  as  his  hands  and  feet.  That 
night  he  touched  it,  turned  it  over,  wondering  what  it  con- 
tained ;  and  as  he  had  longed  for  his  twelfth  birthday,  so  now 
he  longed  for  the  day  when  he  should  be  twenty  and  free  to 
solve  the  mystery  of  the  amulet.  Thus  youth  wishes  time  away. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SWINEHERD  NO  LONGER  A  SWINEHERD.      HOW  THE  BLACK 

KNIGHT  STEPS  INTO  THE  STORY,   AND  THE  WHITE  KNIGHT 

SEEKS  THE  GOOSE-GIRL,  AND  OF  OTHER  THINGS 

LONDON,  the  syren,  cast  her  spells  upon  Jerry.  Softly, 
lightly,  they  bound  him,  yet  strong  were  the  silken  fet- 
ters, and  the  Jew  laughed  cheerily  at  the  fulfilment  of  his 
prophecy. 

"London  is  like  a  lovely  woman — when  she  puts  out  her 
strength,  what  man  can  resist?  But  take  care,  take  care, 
mein  yongling,  wear  her  chains  lightly,  else,  maybe,  they  will 
become  fetters  of  iron.  For  me — "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
"I  can  throw  them  off ;  not  always,  but  in  the  wild,  sweet  coun- 
try, I  find  fresh  strength  to  withstand  the  witchcraft  of  Lon- 
don city." 

There  was  work — plenty  of  it.  Art  was  a  hard  master, 
though  a  good  servant.  Difficulties,  overcome,  melted  away. 
The  casts  no  longer  grinned  and  chuckled  at  his  attempts; 
they  succumbed  and  were  forgotten.  It  was  life  which  met 
him  now.  To  quicken  stone  and  marble,  to  give  expression 
to  sightless  eyes,  touch  to  inanimate  hands,  and  life — life, 
quivering,  joyous  life — to  the  perfectly  formed  figures  which 
grew  under  his  touch.  And  day  after  day  the  youth  within 
him  expanded,  gaining  knowledge  and  experience,  the  strength 
and  power  of  manhood.  Outwardly  too,  was  development; 
the  regular  life,  the  atmosphere  of  comfort  and  cheeriness, 
the  good  food — Reuben  owned  to  a  weakness  for  dainty  liv- 
ing, pleading  his  foreign  parentage — had  their  effect,  and  every 
week  it  seemed  that  Jerry  grew  taller  and  broader,  till  it  be- 
came a  joke  in  the  household.  And  with  it  all  was  a  new 
feeling. 


And  of  Other  Things  233 

He  began  to  understand  Betty's  love  of  finery.  The  coun- 
try-made clothes  were  gradually  exchanged  for  more  modish 
garments.  Often  he  handled  the  elegant  fob  chain,  longing, 
yet  not  daring  to  wear  it.  He  had  many  chances  of  seeing 
the  latest  fashions.  Reuben's  shop  was  a  favourite  lounge  in 
the  morning.  In  those  wonderful  closed  rooms  above  were 
stored  treasures  almost  priceless;  the  result  of  many  years' 
patient  ransacking  of  England  and  the  continent.  Paintings 
by  famous  old  masters;  carved  ivories  of  the  middle  ages, 
yellow  and  stained ;  fans  and  snuff  boxes  from  French  courts ; 
tapestries  embroidered  by  slender  fingers,  dust  now  for  hun- 
dreds of  years;  vellum  manuscripts,  rich  with  gold  and  bril- 
liant colourings,  the  work  of  patient  monks  long  since  gone  to 
their  rest;  swords,  whose  hilts  and  scabbards  were  masses 
of  fine  metal  work  and  precious  stones;  priceless  carpets, 
gems,  and  women's  jewellery — necklaces,  rings,  bracelets.  To 
those  rooms  came  noblemen,  merchants,  lovers  of  the  beau- 
tiful, and  those  who  were  willing  to  buy  because  it  was  the 
correct  thing  to  possess  antiques.  With  such  the  Jew  had 
little  patience;  but  there  were  others,  very  often  shabbily 
dressed,  some  even  with  a  look  of  starvation  in  their  eyes, 
who  were  welcomed  at  any  time.  For  these,  he  would  some- 
times turn  off  a  wealthy  client  to  loiter  by  their  side,  tenderly 
touching  the  lovely  things,  telling  their  history,  bringing  the 
centuries  near  as  yesterday,  while  great  names  became  the 
names  of  ordinary  men  and  women  as  he  fingered  the  things 
they  wore,  the  furniture  they  used. 

Younger  men,  the  fops  of  the  period,  made  the  place  fash- 
ionable. A  few  were  collectors,  others  bought  stones  and 
jewels,  but  the  majority  came  and  went  without  any  pretext 
of  buying.  It  was  some  time  before  Jerry  knew  that  the  old 
house  held  secrets  of  noble  families,  and  the  power  in  many 
cases  to  ruin  those  who  stood  in  the  full  sunlight  of  the  great 
city. 

In  a  small  room  behind  the  hall  they  lay — padlocked  boxes, 
safely  closed  and  barred  from  prying-  eyes,  held  them — parch- 


'234  When  Pan  Pipes 

ments,  bonds,  signed  with  historic  names,  waiting  redemption. 
And  so  the  morning  saw  a  constant  stream  of  the  youth  and 
fashion  of  London.  Gossip  floated  airily,  cards  fell  softly  on 
tables  set  for  that  purpose,  dice  rattled,  while  here  and  there 
a  slow  finger  pushed  silently  and  meditatively  the  carved  crim- 
son and  white  chessmen.  And  under  all  ran  a  current  of 
something  deeper,  the  essence  of  London's  power,  the  passing 
of  money,  the  glittering,  golden  mesh  of  the  syren. 

There  were  times  when  even  the  delights  of  water  and 
clay  grew  grey  against  the  dazzling  pictures  spread  in  the 
hall  below,  and  Jerry  would  steal  from  his  work  to  a  spot  in 
the  wide  gallery,  where,  safely  hidden  behind  massive  furni- 
ture, he  could  see  without  being  seen;  and  here  Toby  would 
join  him  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time,  frankly  delighted  to  give 
information.  There  were  names  hitherto  only  known  from 
books,  sometimes  disappointingly  attached.  Men  of  the  town, 
dissipated,  weak,  sometimes  of  even  vicious  appearance; 
wealthy  citizens,  fathers,  maybe,  of  future  generations  of  peers, 
but  at  present  excluded  by  a  hard  and  fast  line  called  trade. 
Yet  all  had  their  histories,  great  and  small,  and  Toby's  gossip 
was,  unknowingly,  brimful  of  romance;  as  full  indeed  as  the 
old  stories  of  childhood. 

And  in  each  tale  Reuben  figured,  hard,  inexorable  in  some 
cases,  but  in  most  playing  the  part  of  the  good  genie.  Help, 
pity,  rescue,  were  the  notes  he  struck,  and  Jerry  noticed  how, 
with  few  exceptions,  clients  turned  to  him  as  friend  to  friend. 
There  was  one  in  particular. 

"His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Wynderley,"  whispered  Toby,  indi- 
cating a  tall,  grave  man  of  forty.  "Years  ago  he  went  the 
pace,  they  say — gaming  and  women.  He  used  to  come  here 
to  buy  diamonds  and  emeralds,  till  Reuben  learnt  what  they 
were  for  and  refused  to  sell  to  him.  There  was  a  row,  I 
tell  you,  and  my  lord  took  his  custom  elsewhere.  They  say 
the  old  duke  thanked  Reuben  himself,  but  that  I  don't  know — 
it  was  before  my  time,  and  Reuben  doesn't  talk.  Then  the 
crash  came;  the  town  house  was  sold,  with  all  the  plate  and 


And  of  Other  Things  235 

jewels,  and  Reuben  bought  them,  and  ran  up  against  my  lord 
again.  It  killed  the  old  duke,  but  it  brought  his  son  to  his 
senses,  for  he  wasn't  thoroughly  bad,  and  Reuben  talked  to 
him  like  a  grandfather.  Well,  the  end  was  that  he  lent  him 
money  at  a  low  interest,  and  set  him  on  his  feet.  In  time  he 
bought  back  everything — hard  work,  but  his  grace  turned  to 
it  like  a  good  'un ;  dismissed  his  steward,  and  looked  after  the 
estate  himself,  and  retrenched  everywhere.  For  the  last  five 
years  he's  been  free,  got  married  to  a  nice  lady  with  plenty  of 
money,  and  now  comes  to  Reuben  for  everything.  I  think  he 
looks  upon  him  as  a  second  father.  Oh,  he's  always  doing 
that  sort  of  thing."  Here  followed  more  stories.  Jerry  lis- 
tened bewildered. 

"And  yet  he  says  he's  fond  of  money,  and  a  miser?"  Toby's 
cheerful  round  face  broadened  into  a  grin. 

"That's  his  nonsense,  although  he  really  thinks  he  is. 
Haven't  you  seen  his  jar  of  beads?"  Jerry  nodded,  remember- 
ing the  glass  bottle  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Well,  whenever  he  helps  anyone,  or  takes  less  than  he's 
entitled  to,  he  declares  he  never  does  it  willingly,  and  each 
time  he  crows  over  it  as  though  he'd  gained  a  victory,  and 
drops  a  gold  bead  into  the  'jar  of  good  deeds,'  as  he  calls  it. 
At  the  end  of  the  week  he  counts  them  up,  and  I  can  tell 
you  there's  the  dickens  to  pay  if  it's  shorter  than  the  week 
before." 

And  so  on,  till  London  became  indeed  a  city  of  romance, 
of  which  Reuben  held  the  keys  and  Toby  was  showman. 
Jerry's  longings  flew  high.  To  belong  to  that  magic  circle 
whose  lives,  it  seemed  to  him,  were  mystical  as  the  lives  of 
gods,  whose  homes  were  ancestral,  whose  names  stood  through 
the  ages.  It  was  a  foolish  wish,  so  utterly  impossible,  that 
he  thought  of  it  as  he  thought  of  the  world  of  Faerie,  a  beau- 
tiful dream. 

But  another  road  was  open  to  him — the  road  to  fame  and 
riches.  And  here  was  reality;  work  led  that  way — work  and 
patience.  Of  such  dreams  he  could  speak.  Day  after  day 


236  When  Pan  Pipes 

rose,  waned,  and  fell  into  the  past,  leaving  a  consciousness  of 
something  done,  a  step  gained.  The  Jew  watched  approvingly, 
giving  good  advice,  and  teaching  of  things  outside  the  world 
of  ordinary  life.  Somehow  Jerry  recalled  long  talks  with  his 
father,  to  which  he  had  listened  without  understanding,  yet 
which  now  came  back,  fraught  with  a  new  meaning. 

Often  at  night,  when  all  was  quiet,  they  would  leave  the 
warm  fireside,  and  passing  through  silent  streets,  make  their 
way  to  the  river — flowing,  flowing,  ever  flowing.  Here  rose 
the  moon — among  narrow  streets  and  dark  corners  it  was  for- 
gotten— even  by  the  river  it  was  another  moon,  no  longer  the 
friendly,  watching  face  of  Cloudesley,  but  a  majestic  shining 
thing,  as  far  apart  as  the  frequenters  of  the  Hall  were  from 
its  inmates. 

And,  oh!  the  squalor,  the  vileness  of  London  by  night. 
On  the  river  banks,  under  its  dark  arches,  in  bylanes  and 
short  cuts,  the  syren  threw  aside  her  golden  robes  and  showed 
the  misery  and  foulness  beneath.  Men  and  women,  in  filthy 
rags,  with  the  faces  of  the  lost,  slunk  from  their  daytime  hid- 
ing places,  as  bats  move  out  at  night.  What  they  did  Jerry 
hardly  knew.  The  riverside  held  its  secrets,  and  the  moon 
above  cast  long  rays  of  silver,  giving  evil  things  beauty  and 
romance. 

It  cast  deceptive  shadows  too.  In  some  of  the  faces  he 
saw  strange  likenesses  to  people  he  had  known ;  once  a  woman 
brushed  swiftly  by  him;  a  tall,  graceful  figure,  muffled  in  a 
dark  cloak.  As  she  passed  her  hood  fell  slightly  back,  and  the 
face  was  the  face  of  Hester  Dyke,  older,  thinner,  yet  even 
more  beautiful.  Jerry  started  forward,  but  it  was  gone.  So 
quick  was  the  movement  that  it  was  unnoticed  by  Reuben,  and 
Jerry  told  himself  that  the  idea  was  only  fancy.  The  Jew  cast 
glances  of  pity  as  they  went. 

"They  are  the  faces  of  devils,"  he  said,  "and  they  are  devils 
now.  But  not  always,  ah,  not  always.  Some  time  they  will 
throw  off  those  vile  bodies,  and  put  on  new  ones,  and  each 
one  shall  be  better  than  the  last,  and  so  shall  they  win  freedom 


And  of  Other  Things  237 

by  their  own  work.  You  say,  the  Lord  Christ  died  to  give 
salvation.  Maybe,  maybe,  but  it  is  a  lazy  religion.  Who 
knows,  in  the  ages  gone  by,  we — you  and  I,  mein  yongling — 
were  perhaps  as  these  are ;  and  so,  it  will  all  kom  right  in  the 
end,  when  the  good  God,  who  watches  over  all,  shall  see  fit. 
For  He  is  Life,  and  Life  is  everywhere — in  me,  in  you,  in 
these  poor  things,  in  wood,  in  stone,  in  the  earth,  in  the  skies — 
and  it  is  for  us  to  use  it  well. 

Great  vistas  opened  before  the  boy;  problems,  riddles — 
broadening  his  outlook,  widening  his  sympathies,  bringing  him 
in  such  close  contact  with  those  dear  ones  that  he  could  hear 
the  well  known  voice  at  times.  "Be  good,  Jerry  boy ;  be  gen- 
tle, be  true,  and  all  will  come  right." 

It  was  one  summer  morning  in  the  height  of  the  season. 
London  was  wearing  her  sweetest  smile.  Green  trees  in  the 
parks  whispered  love  stories  to  each  other,  flowers  in  the  gar- 
dens shed  sweet  fragrance,  youth  donned  its  daintiest  garments 
and  went  a  merrymaking,  and  the  great  heart  of  London 
throbbed  and  beat  in  unison. 

Jerry  had  stolen  from  his  work  and  was  sitting  at  the  peep- 
hole in  the  gallery  with  Toby,  off  duty  for  a  while,  by  his 
side.  Below,  the  stream  of  custom,  the  murmur  of  voices,  went 
on  as  usual.  The  size  of  the  peep-hole  necessitated  close  prox- 
imity ;  shoulders  and  heads  touched  each  other.  Toby's  cheer- 
ful voice  babbled  its  stories,  then  suddenly  stopped.  Some- 
thing, a  thrill  of  coldness,  seemed  to  run  through  him,  com- 
municating itself  to  Jerry.  Surprised,  he  turned.  A  look 
was  on  the  round,  good-humoured  face — a  look,  which  he  re- 
membered to  have  seen  once  or  twice  before,  particularly  on 
that  first  night — a  look  of  fear,  of  fascination.  He  was  gazing 
at  the  bend  of  the  staircase — someone  had  come  in  and  was 
turning  into  the  main  hall,  a  tall,  slight  man;  young,  dark, 
slender,  foppish  in  his  dress,  and  with  an  air,  which  in  one  less 
aristocratic  might  have  been  termed  rakish. 

For  a  moment  he  stood,  casting  a  glance  over  the  assembled 
company,  a  glance  almost  contemptuous;  the  thin  dark  lips 


238  When  Pan  Pipes 

seemed  to  curl  cynically,  yet  it  might  have  been  their  natural 
expression.  Reuben,  displaying  a  case  of  Indian  workman- 
ship, lifted  his  eyes  as  the  stranger  advanced,  then  dropped 
them  quickly.  Jerry  fancied  he  had  no  liking  for  the  new- 
comer. 

"Who  is  it,  Toby  ?"  he  asked.  His  companion  paused  a  mo- 
ment ;  the  look  of  fear  was  gone,  but  so  was  the  light  cheerful- 
ness. 

"Who  is — which  do  you  mean?"  Jerry  nodded  to  the 
stranger,  now  shaking  hands  and  exchanging  greetings  with 
acquaintances. 

"That?    Oh,  that's  Sir  Francis  Crewe." 

"Sir  Francis  Crewe."  The  name  recalled  memories.  He 
cast  back  in  his  mind  and  placed  it.  Francis  Crewe  was  the 
boy  who  had  fought  Paul. 

"Does  he  live  in  London?"  he  whispered.  "I  haven't  seen 
him  here  before." 

"No,"  Toby  answered  briefly.  "He's  been  away  for  a  year. 
His  father  was  ill." 

"And  is  he  dead?"  asked  Jerry,  noticing  now  that  the  object 
of  his  interest  was  attired  in  deep  mourning. 

"Yes.    He's  Sir  Francis  now." 

The  Jew  looked  up.  Toby,  knowing  the  signal,  hurried 
away,  and  Jerry  sat  on  alone.  He  watched,  with  fascinated 
eyes,  the  elegant  figure  as  it  passed  from  one  to  another,  and 
was  even  more  conscious  of  his  own  height,  and  breadth,  and 
ungainly  movements.  Unconsciously,  almost  as  a  child  imi- 
tates, he  caught,  during  the  months  which  followed,  something 
of  the  other's  courtly  grace  and  carriage,  though  never  to  any 
great  extent. 

Sir  Francis  Crewe  was  known  and  quoted  in  fashionable 
circles.  What  he  wore  to-day  the  world  would  wear  to-mor- 
row. His  gestures,  words,  nay,  even  his  expressions,  were 
mimicked,  and  report  said  that  he  could  marry  any  woman  at 
court,  not  excepting  some  who  were  unnamed,  even  by  gossip. 

The  new  baronet  seemed  at  present  to  have  no  thought 


"And  of  Other  Things  239 

of  marriage;  he  was  here,  there*  everywhere,  like  a  butterfly 
newly  hatched,  trying  his  wings;  settling  would  come  later. 
All  this  Jerry  learned  by  the  way;  beyond  answering  ques- 
tions, Toby  never  mentioned  him,  and  Jerry  wondered  at 
times  what  had  caused  that  sudden  look  of  fear.  For  fear 
it  was,  and  for  many  a  long  month  it  lay  somewhere  at  the 
back  of  the  round  rosy  face,  ready  to  appear  at  an  unexpected 
moment — a  rapping  at  the  door,  a  quick  call  from  Reuben, 
more  than  all,  at  unexpected  visits  from  Sir  Francis  himself. 
He  would  come  at  all  times,  despite  the  fact  that  the  Jew 
treated  him  with  scant  respect.  And  at  his  slightest  com- 
mand Toby  cringed  like  a  whipped  dog.  There  were  times 
when  he  would  go  with  him  for  hours  at  a  stretch,  returning 
with  some  excuse  that  so  good  a  customer  must  not  be  neg- 
lected. 

It  was  at  such  times  that  a  different  atmosphere  crept  into 
the  cheerful  household;  an  atmosphere  taking  Jerry  back  to 
those  dark  days  in  the  cottage.  He  wondered  if  it  were  fancy, 
and,  if  so,  what  connection  was  there  between  him  and  Sir 
Francis  Crewe,  or  whether  Toby  really  had  something  on  his 
mind.  Some  days  the  shadow  seemed  to  lift  and  Toby  was 
his  own  gay  self,  busy,  light-hearted,  carolling  his  ditty  as 
though  with  never  a  care  in  the  world : 

Begone,  Dull  Care;  I  prithee,  begone  from  me. 

In  work  and  play,  in  shade  and  sunshine,  the  summer  days 
passed.  London  shook  off  the  gay  throng  and  showed  a  dull, 
sullen  face  to  the  world.  Her  magic  toils  relaxed  under  the 
August  sun;  work  grew  wearisome,  even  ambition  dwindled 
to  an  occasional  thought  only.  Cloudesley,  the  dim,  leafy 
lanes,  cool,  where  breezes  murmured,  and  tiny  springs  dripped 
in  the  rocks,  the  hot  yellow  cornfields,  and  Mrs.  Chubbe's  grey 
shadowy  dairy,  held  out  alluring  hands  to  Jerry. 

Why  not?  He  had  plenty  of  money.  Several  evenings  he 
met  the  coach  as  it  drew  up  at  the  inn  in  the  Strand.  Daniel, 
in  very  few  words,  gave  him  news,  and  the  little  village  seemed 


240  When  Pan  Pipes 

every  day  to  draw  him  nearer.  But  a  holiday  would  mean 
work  lost,  money  spent,  and  in  the  end  he  put  away  temptation. 

Not  so  Reuben.  At  night  all  seemed  as  usual,  but  in  the 
morning  he  was  gone. 

"Packed  up  his  traps  and  went,"  said  Toby,  laughing;  "and 
we  shall  be  alone  now  for  weeks,  perhaps  months.  It's  noth- 
ing," he  added,  seeing  Jerry's  wondering  look,  "he  does  it 
every  year.  He'll  turn  up  one  day  when  he's  had  enough  of  a 
roving  life."  It  seemed  strange  without  the  kindly  presence, 
the  genial  personality.  Jerry  had  no  liking  for  it,  and  said 
so ;  Toby  grew  vehement. 

"It's  no  use  telling  him  how  he's  missed,  he  wouldn't  be- 
lieve. Never  had  anyone  so  low  an  opinion  of  himself."  A 
break  came  in  the  monotony.  It  was  one  Saturday  evening. 
Jerry,  working  in  his  room,  was  disturbed  by  Toby,  Toby  with 
a  face  of  delight. 

"Gentleman  wants  you,"  he  said.  "No,  he  wouldn't  give 
his  name — said  he'd  surprise  you." 

There  in  the  entrance  stood  Paul,  his  thin  dark  face  full 
of  friendly  welcome,  his  eyes  sparkling  at  Jerry's  astonish- 
ment. 

"Paul!" 

"Jer,  old  fellow,  how  are  you?"  Jerry  had  his  hand,  hold- 
ing it  so  tightly  that  its  owner  winced. 

"Jerry,  you  giant.  Do  you  realise  that  your  hand's  a  vice, 
and  mine,  well — "  he  laughed  and  looked  down  at  the  slight 
white  fingers  released  from  the  iron  grasp.  Jerry  followed 
his  glance  somewhat  ruefully. 

"I'm  really  very  sorry,  Paul ;  I  forgot  how  strong  I  was." 

"Yes,"  he  smiled,  "just  the  same  old  Jerry;  big  and  sol- 
emn and  thoughtful.  Take  me  somewhere,  will  you,  and  let's 
have  our  talk  out.  How  did  you  get  here  ?  I  only  came  back 
last  night.  I'm  going  down  to  Cloudesley  to-morrow,  and  I 
thought  I'd  give  you  a  look  in.  Betty  told  me  all  about  you." 

They  were  making  their  way  upstairs ;  Paul  threw  inquisi- 
tive glances  round  as  they  mounted.  In  Jerry's  room  his  in- 


And  of  Other  Things  241 

terest  culminated.  He  looked  curiously  at  the  massive  furni- 
ture, the  thick  carpet,  then  sauntered  to  the  window,  gave  a 
long  glance  downwards,  and  turned. 

"How  did  you  manage  it,  Jerry  ?  Who  is  this  Reuben  Gade, 
and  where  did  you  come  across  him  ?  You're  in  clover  here ; 
tell  me  all  about  it."  Nothing  loath,  Jerry  launched  forth, 
from  the  buying  of  the  book  in  the  beginning. 

"So  he's  your  pedlar,"  cried  Paul  in  astonishment.  "Why, 
what  does  he  want  with  peddling?  He  must  be  a  rich  man." 

And  explanations  had  to  be  given,  more  questions  asked, 
till  the  subject  was  thrashed  dry,  and  it  was  Paul's  turn  to 
relate.  Sitting  there  in  the  bend  of  the  window  Jerry  could 
see  the  length  of  the  street,  the  golden  balls  gleaming  in  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  the  few  stray  passers-by,  loiterers,  or  now 
and  then,  one,  who  with  stealthy  steps,  sought  the  doorway 
beneath.  He  knew  now  why  that  side  was  boarded  up.  Reu- 
ben, in  his  feeling  for  others,  refused  to  let  goods  in  pawn, 
or  even  those  past  redemption,  be  exposed  to  prying  eyes. 

"I  would  not  like  my  neighbour  to  see  my  poverty,"  he  had 
said. 

Paul  gossipped  on;  questioning,  then  relating,  and  Jerry 
listened  to  tales  of  far-off  lands,  as  to  some  fairy  tale  of  child- 
hood. There  was  no  moon,  and  the  street  below  lay  in  dark- 
ness, save  for  the  flickering  lamp  at  the  corner.  People  had 
gone  home,  night  birds  were  not  yet  out,  and  loneliness  fell. 
So  silent  was  everything,  that  the  stealthy  opening  of  a  door 
somewhere,  sounded  loud,  even  in  the  room. 

Gazing  abstractedly  through  the  window,  Jerry's  attention 
was  caught  by  a  movement  under  the  golden  balls.  It  was 
a  customer  leaving,  yet  what  customer  could  be  in  the  shop 
so  late?  Toby  had  locked  up  an  hour  ago.  Surprised,  he 
watched ;  Paul,  facing  him,  saw  nothing  and  talked  on.  Slowly 
the  door  opened,  and  Toby's  face  peeped  out.  It  had  lost  its 
cheerful  smile,  but  the  look  on  it  was  not  fear  for  himself, 
rather  watchfulness.  Presently  it  withdrew.  Through  the 
door,  someone  gave  a  hurried  glance  up  and  down ;  Toby  f ol- 


242  When  Pan  Pipes 

lowed  to  the  threshold.  The  second  figure  pressed  something 
into  his  hand  and  passed  rapidly  down  the  street.  There  was 
no  mistaking  its  slight  elegance,  and  a  gleam  of  light  on  the 
face  as  it  turned  showed  the  dark,  haughty  features.  Toby 
watched  him  go,  then,  with  a  quick  movement  and  a  curious 
sound  of  angry  hatred,  he  hurled  something  from  him  and 
vanished  within.  It  fell  far  off,  with  the  ring  of  money. 

Full  of  wonderment,  Jerry's  eyes  followed  the  baronet  to 
the  end  of  the  narrow  street.  Just  before  he  turned,  another 
figure,  that  of  a  tall  woman,  closely  veiled,  stole  quietly  from 
beneath  a  porch,  and  noiselessly,  with  a  gliding  footstep,  fol- 
lowed. Something  in  the  figure  even  beneath  its  draperies 
brought  back  the  remembrance  of  Hester  Dyke,  and  with  it, 
the  conviction  that  his  first  impulse  had  been  right.  It  was 
Hester  he  had  seen ;  moreover,  this  woman  was  the  same. 

Paul  talked  on;  it  may  be  that  in  the  darkness  his  friend's 
absorption  was  not  noticed. 

The  woman  passed  like  a  ghost,  as  silent,  as  swiftly.  At 
the  corner  a  gust  of  wind  caught  the  lamp;  its  flame  scat- 
tered, then  flared  up,  throwing  strange  shadows.  In  its  gleam 
another  shadow  seemed  to  emerge  from  its  lurking  place,  the 
light  sank,  but  it  remained ;  then  moved,  stealthily,  cautiously, 
hugging  the  dark  wall,  till  Jerry  hardly  knew  if  it  were  real 
or  a  shape  sprung  from  the  darkness  and  flickering  flame. 
Creeping,  lurking,  a  thing  of  blackness,  it  went  along,  van- 
ishing at  length  where  the  street  dissolved  into  dark  spaces. 

What  did  it  mean?  In  an  ordinary  way  he  would  have 
taken  little  notice,  such  things  were  common  enough.  The 
presence  of  Toby  and  Sir  Francis  Crewe  as  actors  gave  a 
significance  to  the  incident.  Jerry,  learning  experience  in  the 
ways  of  the  world,  put  this  and  that  together,  and  concluded 
that  Toby  held  perhaps  some  secret  of  the  baronet's.  Yet, 
why  should  he?  Was  it  possible  that  he  owed  money?  And 
why  should  he  require  money  ?  Jerry  turned  it  over  and  over, 
pondering  the  whys  and  wherefores.  Paul's  voice  broke  on 
his  musings. 


And  of  Other  Things  243 

"So  you  see,  old  fellow,  I  shan't  be  back  again  for  a  few 
weeks.  My  father  intends  spending  Christmas  in  London, 
so  I  shall  see  you  then,  I  hope  very  often.  Term  starts  in 
January,  and  at  Easter  we  go  abroad  for  a  short  time. 
Cloudesley  to-morrow.  Hurrah,  Jerry !"  He  leaned  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm.  "You  can't  think  how 
I'm  counting  the  hours — the  minutes — till  I  get  there.  Often, 
among  glorious  mountains  and  wild  valleys,  I've  thought  of 
peaceful  little  Cloudesley,  the  fields  and  woods  in  the  spring- 
time, and  the  pond  where  we  used  to  sit  and  play  fairy  tales, 
you  and  I  and — and — "  his  voice  dropped,  "and — Betty. 
Jerry,  what's  she  like?  You've  seen  her  since  I  have.  Is  she 
just  as  beautiful?" 

"Beautiful?"  Jerry  looked  uncertain.  He  had  never 
thought  about  it.  Was  Betty  beautiful?  Suddenly  another 
face  rose  up,  fair,  sweet,  with  deep  blue  eyes,  and  hair  like 
the  cornfields  in  summer.  That  was  beauty,  indeed.  He  shook 
his  head. 

"I  never  thought  of  Betty  as  being  beautiful." 

"Betty  not  beautiful !"  Paul's  voice  was  indignant.  "Why, 
she's  the  most  beautiful  girl  I've  ever  seen,  and  I've  seen  a 
few.  I  don't  think  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

The  lamp  outside  gave  a  flicker  and  went  out,  leaving  the 
room  in  darkness  and  bringing  the  two  to  their  feet. 

"Jer,  it  must  be  nearly  midnight.  I  must  get  off.  I  wouldn't 
miss  that  coach  for  all  the  gold  in  the  world."  Jerry  made  a 
light  and  accompanied  him  downstairs. 

"Good-bye,  Jer,  old  fellow." 

"Good-bye,  Paul,  good-bye.     See  you  again  soon." 

"Yes,  at  Christmas." 

He  was  gone.  Jerry  watched  him  cross  the  square  and  turn 
into  a  by  street ;  then  closed  and  barred  the  massive  door  and 
went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHICH   TELLS  OF  THE  GOOSE-GIRL  AND  THE  WHITE  KNIGHT, 

AND   HOW   THE  BLACK    KNIGHT   FOUGHT   AND 

WAS  VANQUISHED 

THE  pedlar  came  home,  satiated  with  the  country. 
"There  is  wickedness  in  the  country,"  said  he ;  "yes,  as 
much  as  in  London,  only  she  hides  it  differently.  The  veil 
of  London  is  gold  and  glitter,  and  it  is  called  Pleasure,  but 
that  of  the  country  is  green  and  soft  and  restful,  and  she 
calls  it  Peace.  But  they  are  both  veils  to  hide  their  wicked- 
ness." 

"He's  always  like  this,"  whispered  Toby.  "Things  seem  to 
upset  him  more  in  the  country.  I  expect  he's  been  hearing 
all  sorts  of  tales.  They  talk  so  much  more  there,  you  know. 
He'll  be  himself  in  a  day  or  two." 

Which  prophecy  was  verified.  The  pedlar  put  off  his  trav- 
elling clothes  and  became  Reuben  Gade,  the  business  man,  the 
kind  master,  and  gentle  friend.  Walks  and  talks  were  re- 
sumed, and  the  empty  hall  was  again  filled  with  the  presence 
of  its  owner;  Jerry's  work  went  better,  customers  flocked 
again,  and  Toby's  song  carolled  from  kitchen  regions: 

Begone,  Dull  Care ;  I  prithee,  begone  from  me. 

And  Christmas  brought  Paul.  The  broad  light  of  day 
showed  him  older,  changed  in  many  ways.  The  dark  thin 
face  was  thinner  and  longer,  the  black  eyes  deepened  with 
knowledge  of  men  and  the  world.  He  had  adopted  a  loose 
style  of  dress,  and  wore  his  hair  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  day  among  those  who  worshipped  the  young  poet  of 
the  early  century.  Its  short  curls  rested  against  his  low  collar, 

244 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight        245 

fastened  with  a  loose  silk  tie.  There  was  none  of  the  stylish 
elegance  of  Sir  Francis,  but  in  his  own  way  Paul  challenged 
comparison.  A  woman,  unbiassed,  perhaps  could  hardly  have 
put  one  before  the  other.  Remembering  the  quarrel,  Jerry 
made  no  mention  of  his  name.  Sir  Francis  being  out  of  town, 
there  was  no  meeting,  and  Paul  went  off  to  Oxford  without 
an  idea  that  the  same  roof  which  sheltered  his  friend  often 
covered  his  enemy. 

The  visit  to  Cloudesley  was  not  altogether  satisfactory; 
Betty,  home  from  the  convent  only  some  three  months,  was 
not  yet  settled  down,  and  her  aunt,  contrary  to  all  expecta- 
tions and  much  to  the  surprise  of  neighbours,  allowed  her 
infinite  freedom.  From  a  lovely  child  she  had  developed  into 
a  lovely  maiden,  with  the  manners  and  ease  of  a  lady  born, 
and  the  refinement  which  comes  of  constant  intercourse  with 
good  women. 

But  the  old  Betty  was  still  there ;  wilful,  passionate,  daring, 
and  the  farm  woke  up  again  after  its  quiet  sleep  of  years.  The 
farmer's  eyes  rarely  left  her ;  they  would  follow  every  grace- 
ful movement,  every  pretty  action,  and  when,  in  the  winter 
evenings,  she  perched  herself  upon  his  knee,  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  that  he  could 
deny  her. 

Mrs.  Chubbe,  too,  watched;  but,  mingled  with  admiring 
pride,  was  an  expression  almost  apprehensive.  Did  she  re- 
member my  lady's  words  ?  Or  was  it  only  a  mother's  fear  of 
the  world,  and  its  pitfalls  and  temptations? 

Betty  herself,  light  hearted,  careless,  happy,  sang  through 
the  house,  decked  herself  in  her  little  bits  of  finery,  and  tried 
her  prentice  hand  on  the  village  lads,  who,  nothing  loath, 
responded  nobly.  Mrs.  Chubbe's  fears  vanished,  her  scolding 
tongue  returned,  and  Miss  Betty  was  threatened  with  "serv- 
ice." 

"The  child'll  have  her  head  turned,"  she  said,  "with  all  this 
gallivantin'  an'  nonsense.  The  sooner  she's  at  work  the  bet- 
ter." The  farmer  slowly  pressed  in  a  plug  of  tobacco,  drew 


246  When  Pan  Pipes 

a  spill  from  the  shelf,  pushed  it  between  the  bars,  and  lit  his 
pipe. 

"Our  Betty  don't  go  to  service,  missis,"  he  said,  taking  a 
long  draw,  and  puffing  out  a  cloud  of  sweet  smoke. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  turned  sharply  from  the  fire. 

"Why  not,  pray,  I  should  like  to  know?"  she  answered 
testily.  "Service  was  good  enough  for  me  an'  you,  an'  serv- 
ice'll  be  good  enough  for  her,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"No,"  the  farmer  took  his  pipe  out  and  gazed  solemnly  into 
the  fire.  "No,"  he  lifted  the  tankard  of  ale  at  his  side,  took 
a  deep,  fortifying  draught,  put  his  pipe  in  again,  and  set  the 
measure  down  with  a  decisive  thump.  "This  home's  been  too 
quiet  for  my  likin'  the  few  years  past,  an'  now  the  child's  home, 
why,  to  tell  the  honest  truth,  missis,  I  can't  spare  her  again. 
An'  as  long  as  I've  got  a  roof  an'  a  bit,  she'll  stay  wi'  us, 
service  or  no  service,  an'  that's  my  last  word,  missis."  Mrs. 
Chubbe  laid  down  her  knitting  and  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"You  be  as  artful  as  Old  Nick  hisself,  master.  You'll  let 
me  go  on  an'  on  thinkin'  I'm  gettin'  my  way,  an'  then,  all 
of  a  sudden  like,  you'll  out  an'  say  me  nay,  an'  when  you 
say  it  like  that,  I  know  'tain't  no  good  to  strive  against  you." 
The  farmer  chuckled. 

"I  couldn't  spare  her,  wife — "  and  Mrs.  Chubbe  burst  out : 

"No  more  couldn't  I,  Matthew,  an'  that's  the  solemn  truth ; 
no  more'n  I  could  spare  the  sunshine,  an'  so  we'll  keep  her 
to  home.  But  work  she  must." 

"Aye,"  interrupted  the  farmer,  "work's  good  for  all.  Gi' 
her  the  dairy,  wife."  But  Mrs.  Chubbe  shot  out  her  horns 
again. 

"If  'tisn't  just  like  a  man.  Gi'  her  the  dairy!  A  giddy, 
thoughtless  wench  like  our  Betty,  wi'  the  milk  o'  six  cows  to 
deal  wi'  ?  No,  no,  master,  she  shall  ha'  the  care  o'  the  poultry 
yard,  an'  the  makin'  o'  the  butter,  an'  that's  enough  for  the 
present." 

"Well,  well,"  agreed  the  farmer. 

"An'  as  soon  as  the  young  count's  gone  she  shall  start. 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         247 

Twould  be  hard  on  her  now  he's  here,  an'  likely  wantin'  her 
when  her  hand's  in  the  butter — but  after — " 

With  a  shake  of  the  head,  Mrs.  Chubbe  bent  over  her  work 
and  dismissed  the  subject;  the  long  pipe  smoked  steadily  on. 
There  was  a  silence,  broken  at  last  by  the  farmer. 

"Missis,"  she  looked  up,  startled  by  the  tone,  "d'ye  think  it's 
wise?" 

"Wise?"  repeated  his  wife  interrogatively. 

"They're  but  young  things,  an' — an' — "  The  farmer  bent, 
frowned,  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  into  the  fire,  and 
laid  it  beside  him  thoughtfully.  "Betty's  a  good  looking  lass, 
an'  he's — a  gentleman.  'Twould  be  better  to  set  her  to  work, 
wife." 

Mrs.  Chubbe's  head  was  bent  over  her  work.  Her  hus- 
band watched  her  curiously  and  waited,  but  there  was  no 
reply. 

"Best  be  on  the  safe  side — she'll  have  nought  to  do  wi'  the 
village  lads;  but  there's  no  many  lasses  could  say  nay  to  the 
young  count,  an'  so  I  say,  'Steer  on  the  safe  side.'  Now,  if 
it  had  been  our  Jerry  ?" 

"Jerry !"  Mrs.  Chubbe  pushed  back  her  chair  with  a  quick 
grating  sound  and  dropped  her  work  angrily.  "Jerry!  'twill 
be  time  to  think  o'  him  when  he's  made  his  way  i'  the  world. 
All  my  Lady  Kezzy's  fine  talk  of  what  he's  goin'  to  do  wi' 
his  bits  o'  clay  and  water — what  good's  them  likely  goin'  to  do 
him?  A  deal  better  ha'  stayed  here,  an'  made  a  farmer  of 
him.  Our  Betty's  not  for  the  likes  o'  him.  Not  but  what 
I'm  fond  o'  the  boy,  for  he's  a  good  boy;  but  he's  not  good 
enough  for  her,  an'  that's  my  last  word,  master.  'Sides  which, 
he  hasn't  asked  her  yet,  an'  you  can  take  my  word  for  it, 
hasn't  a  thought  for  her  'cept  as  a  sister,  nor  she  for  him." 
Gathering  up  her  work  she  rose  with  a  bustling  finality,  turned 
down  the  lamp,  and  bidding  the  farmer  see  to  bolts  and  bars, 
flounced  out  of  the  room. 

"Jerry!"  she  ejaculated  contemptuously,  when  safe  in  the 
shelter  of  her  own  room.  "Jerry!"  Opening  and  shutting 


248  When  Pan  Pipes 

drawers  with  vigorous  bangs  seemed  to  work  off  righteous  in- 
dignation. She  put  away  her  work,  shook  up  the  pillows, 
wound  up  her  watch  and  hung  it  in  the  pocket  of  the  bed  cur- 
tain, then,  taking  off  the  lace  collar  she  wore  in  the  afternoon, 
she  shook  it,  wrapped  it  in  white  paper  and  laid  it  in  a  drawer. 
A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  her;  she  drew  the  drawer 
further  out,  lifted  various  articles  from  it,  finally  fetching  up 
a  soft  parcel,  neatly  tied  in  tissue  paper.  Before  opening  it, 
she  shot  to  the  bolt  of  the  door.  "Best  be  on  the  safe  side," 
she  murmured,  turning  back  the  wrappings  with  gentle  fingers. 
Inside  the  many  layers,  lavender  scented,  lay  a  crimson  sash, 
broad,  long,  and  softly  rich.  Mrs.  Chubbe  unfolded  it,  gazing 
long  and  lovingly  as  she  ran  it  through  her  hands,  then  care- 
fully put  it  away  again  and  closed  the  drawer. 

"Jerry,  indeed! — an'  with  a  thing  like  that?"  she  muttered 
with  vague  meaning.  "All  right — "  as  the  farmer  shook  the 
door.  "Don't  you  be  in  such  a  mighty  hurry ;  I'm  comin'." 

And  so  Betty's  freedom  continued,  free  from  work,  free 
from  care,  free  from  every  tie.  It  was  not  until  the  last  night 
of  his  stay  that  Paul  spoke  of  that  which  was  uppermost. 
They  were  coming  home  from  Channington  in  the  late  winter 
afternoon;  the  snow  crumbled  and  bound  under  their  feet, 
frost  glittered  on  every  twig.  The  sunset's  crimson  glow  fell 
on  her  face,  tinting  the  paleness.  Paul  slipped  his  arm  through 
hers,  drawing  her  close. 

"Betty,  do  you  remember  once,  long  ago,  in  this  place,  I 
asked  you  if  you'd  marry  me?  Do  you  remember?"  She 
turned  her  face  coquettishly  from  his,  the  sparkling,  vivid  face, 
in  its  youthful  beauty,  and  nodded. 

"Betty,  I  ask  you  again,  will  you  marry  me?  I  am  not 
rich,  but  there's  enough  for  us,  and  in  the  future — I  hope 
very  far  off — there'll  be  plenty,  and  you'll  be  a  countess. 
Will  you,  Betty?"  He  had  stopped  and  was  bending  over 
her,  still  holding  her  arm.  "Ah,  Betty,  you  don't  know  how 
I've  wanted  you — how  I  want  you.  Every  day,  every  hour, 
every  minute,  I  love  you  more.  All  the  beautiful  world  is 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         249 

nothing  without  you.  Will  you,  Betty?  Soon  I  shall  have 
finished  at  Oxford,  and  then — then — " 

His  voice  broke  in  its  intensity;  he  would  have  drawn  her 
nearer,  would  have  lifted  her  to  his  heart,  but  there  was  no 
soft  yielding  in  the  slender  form  beside  him,  no  hint  of  pas- 
sionate longing,  of  the  abandonment  which  tells  of  love. 

"Betty,  dearest,  you  promised." 

"Oh,  Paul."  She  turned  her  head ;  the  dark  eyes  with  their 
love  and  longing  might  have  swayed  her.  "I'm  so  young,  I've 
seen  nothing  yet ;  I  want,  oh,  ever  so  many  things." 

It  was  the  old  cry.  Even  at  that  moment  Paul  smiled, 
loving  her  all  the  more  for  the  answer.  He  drew  her  closer, 
and  slid  his  arm  round  her.  She  made  no  resistance,  yet 
there  was  no  sign  of  yielding. 

"What  do  you  want,  Betty?  There's  nothing  you  shall  not 
have — money,  friends,  gaiety,  anything."  She  stood  silent, 
half  turned  from  him,  one  little  foot  tracing  patterns  in  the 
snow.  Paul  waited,  then  went  on. 

"New  clothes,  Betty,  you  shall  have  them  every  day.  Jew- 
els? Betty,  you  love  sparkling  things,  I'd  have  the  diamonds 
re-set  for  you,  and  the  emeralds.  Oh,  Betty,"  he  almost  for- 
got the  present,  as  a  vision  rose  of  his  love,  the  gleaming  green 
stones  resting  on  her  fair  neck,  flashing  from  her  copper  red 
hair,  clasping  the  round  white  arms.  The  same  magic  must 
have  conjured  up  a  similar  picture  in  her  mind,  for  she  lifted 
her  face  with  a  deep  gasp  of  delight. 

"Oh,  Paul — emeralds?  How  lovely — but — "  she  shook  her 
head,  and  turned  again  to  the  weaving  of  patterns. 

"But  what  ?"  Suddenly  she  turned,  laid  her  soft  face  against 
him,  her  little  mittened  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Paul,  I  do  like  you  very,  very  much,  but  I  like  something 
better."  The  thrill  of  her  touch,  the  rapture  of  holding  her, 
turned  him  giddy.  He  would  have  lifted  her  face  to  his,  but 
she  pushed  his  hand  away. 

"What  is  it,  Betty,  that  you  love  more  than  you  love  me?" 
he  whispered. 


250  When  Pan  Pipes 

"My — freedom — "  came  in  low  tones. 

"You  shall  have  it,  Betty.  Dearest,  you  shall  be  as  free 
as  a 'bird;  you  shall  come  and  go  without  any  questioning 
from  me.  Only  love  me,  Betty,  and  promise  that  some  day 
you'll  come  to  me  for  ever." 

"No,"  she  drew  herself  from  his  reluctant  arms  and  stood 
upright.  "No.  That  would  not  be  freedom.  Come,"  she  put 
her  arm  in  his,  "let  us  go,  and  forget  this.  Before  I  promise 
anything  to  any  man  I  must  see  more.  You  don't  really  mind, 
dear  Paul,  do  you?" 

He  knew  she  was  fancy  free.  The  cool,  endearing  term 
alone  would  have  told  him.  Not  yet  had  love  shot  his  arrow 
into  Betty's  heart,  not  yet  had  she  known  the  sweetness  of 
his  chains.  Freedom !  Paul  could  have  laughed,  but  for  the 
aching  in  his  heart.  Having  once  been  love's  prisoner,  who 
would  wish  for  liberty? 

He  whispered  something  of  this  as  they  walked  slowly  on, 
urging,  persuading,  but  Betty  stood  firm.  He  lifted  her  over 
the  last  stile,  then,  still  holding  her,  put  the  final  question. 

"Betty,  is  there  anyone  else  you  love?" 

"No,  Paul."  The  answer  rang  clear  and  true ;  he  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

"One  question  more,  dearest,  and  I'll  let  you  go.  Betty,  if 
— if — anyone  asks  you — what  I've  asked  you — will  you  tell  me 
first — before  anyone  else  ?  Let  me  hear  your  answer  from  you 
— will  you?"  And  again  came  the  answer,  innocent  as  a 
child's. 

"Yes,  of  course,  Paul.  You  shall  be  the  very  first  one  to 
be  told.  But  I  don't  think  there'll  be  anyone  else.  It's  only 
that  I  want  to  see  things."  And  with  that  he  let  her  go.  It 
was  not  altogether  unsatisfactory;  she  was  heart  whole;  and 
in  little  Cloudesley  who  should  win  her  from  him?  Sooner 
or  later  he  must  prevail  and  gain  her  love. 

Paul's  castle  grew  that  night  like  Aladdin's  palace.  Fair 
and  glorious,  its  turrets  and  spires  stretching  into  the  sky,  the 
fairest  castle  that  ever  was  built,  and  in  his  dreams  Betty 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         251 

threw  off  her  gown  of  homespun,  and  wore  a  glittering  robe 
of  silver,  with  a  glamour  of  green  emeralds  and  sparkling 
diamonds.  Long  ago  he  had  told  her  she  was  like  a  princess. 
A  princess !  A  queen !  Queen  of  beauty,  queen  of  his  heart, 
queen  to  rule  wherever  she  dwelt.  His  last  thought  was  that 
queens  must  be  guarded.  Cloudesley  and  he  would  guard  their 
queen,  and  some  day,  under  his  wing,  she  should  see  the  beau- 
tiful world. 

The  farmer  breathed  more  freely  after  Paul's  departure. 
Though  not  perhaps  of  brilliant  intelligence,  he  was  quick- 
witted enough  to  have  caught  the  whisper  of  the  village: 
"Mrs.  Chubbe's  bringing  up  that  gal  o'  hers  like  a  lady,  an' 
she'll  live  to  rue  the  day."  Also  he  read  in  my  Lady  Karen's 
face  an  expression  meaning,  "I  wash  my  hands  of  such  doings ; 
I  warned  you  long  ago." 

It  hurt  his  pride,  and  Matthew  Chubbe  had  more  than  his 
share  of  that  sturdy  independent  pride  which,  while  deferring 
socially  to  its  betters  in  station,  knows  no  superior  in  the 
sight  of  God.  Paul  was  gone,  however ;  for  the  time  the  un- 
pleasantness was  over.  When  he  returned,  Betty  would  have 
settled  to  the  life  of  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  there  would  be 
no  time  for  gallivanting. 

Which  hope  seemed  to  be  fulfilled.  Betty  took  to  the  work 
willingly.  The  old  hens  were  a  constant  source  of  amusement 
to  her,  while  looking  after  them,  even  to  her  aunt's  satisfac- 
tion, and  the  soft  downy  chicks  roused  something  very  tender 
in  the  dark,  flashing  eyes.  The  butter,  too,  seemed  to  come  by 
magic,  and  not  even  in  her  dream  silks  and  jewels  could  Betty 
have  looked  lovelier  than  in  the  shadowy  dairy,  with  its  low 
colourings  of  greys  and  browns  and  creamy  whiteness.  Na- 
ture, too,  lent  a  hand,  tanning  and  flushing  the  delicate  paleness 
of  her  cheeks,  filling  out  the  slender  figure,  giving  the  fresh 
ness  and  fragrance  of  wind,  and  dew,  and  sun,  and  perfumed 
things. 

The  whispers  died  away;  the  village  showed  its  surprise, 
almost  its  disappointment,  that  its  forebodings  had  not  come 


252  When  Pan  Pipes 

to  pass,  and  my  Lady  Karen  even  condescended  to  visit  the 
dairy  when  Betty  was  making  up  the  butter  for  market  and 
express  her  approval. 

"Mother  Monica  and  the  sisters  have  shown  themselves  sen- 
sible women,  Keziah,"  she  said  that  evening.  "They've  put 
no  absurd  notions  into  the  girl's  head ;  she  seems  to  have  taken 
up  her  proper  position  without  any  nonsense.  I  own  I  never 
expected  her  to  settle  in  Cloudesley.  And  she's  kept  her  good 
looks;  yes — "  my  lady  laid  her  work  in  her  lap  and  spoke 
thoughtfully,  "I  must  say  the  child  made  an  impression  on  me ; 
indeed,  she  is  very  winsome."  Lady  Kezzy  listened  delight- 
edly. 

"I  was  sure,  sister,  that  Betty  always  meant  well;  she  is 
young,  and  girls  are  thoughtless  and  giddy." 

"Yes,"  Lady  Karen  answered  musingly.  Youth,  with  its 
careless  light-heartedness,  thrust  itself  flauntingly  before  her, 
and  memories  of  that  dear  one,  gay,  careless,  beautiful,  even 
as  Betty  herself,  rose  up  in  her  mind.  Her  sister  probably 
had  the  same  thought,  and  for  a  short  time  both  ladies  sat 
silent,  living  again  the  past.  The  entrance  of  the  tea  tray 
sent  memories  flying  back  to  their  own  place,  and  the  evening 
finished  as  usual. 

But  underneath  Betty's  demure  exterior  lay  longings  and 
cravings,  and  all  sorts  of  strange  emotions.  The  convent  had 
taught  self-control,  and  she  kept  them  to  herself.  Indeed, 
there  was  no  one  to  whom  she  could  speak  of  such  things,  and 
even  if  there  had  been,  it  is  doubtful  if  such  vague,  intangible 
feelings  could  have  been  put  into  words.  The  farmer  might 
have  understood,  Jerry  have  sympathised,  having  had  much 
the  same  experience.  But  only  a  woman  could  have  told  her 
that  it  was  the  passing  of  childhood,  the  desire  for  knowledge 
of  a  sphere  beyond  little  Cloudesley,  the  craving  of  an  eager, 
restless  nature  for  excitement,  life,  morally  speaking,  a  ride 
on  the  merry-go-round  of  the  world.  Jerry's  letters,  without 
meaning  to  do  so,  intensified  these  longings.  What  wonder 
that  the  dull  monotony  palled  slightly  as  the  months  went  by? 


The  Goose- girl  and  White  Knight         253 

The  farmer  saw  and  understood ;  his  wife  saw,  understood, 
and  chided.  But  both  did  what  they  could  in  the  way  of  small 
gaieties.  Market  day  saw  Betty  in  the  covered  place,  de- 
murely seated,  knitting  in  hand,  on  a  low  chair,  beside  her 
white-draped  stall,  temptingly  spread  with  yellow  butter, 
brown  eggs,  and  limp  poultry.  The  farmers'  wives  and  daugh- 
ters were  friendly,  yet,  somehow,  between  them  and  the  inn- 
keeper's niece  a  broad  gulf  fixed  itself,  indefinable,  yet  always 
apparent.  There  were  neighbourly  visits,  little  outings,  in 
which  she  joined  with  all  a  young  girl's  pleasure,  but  she  made 
no  intimate  friends,  keeping  her  best  for  home.  There  were 
times  when  the  farmer  wondered;  he  knew  that,  beneath  the 
sweetness,  the  ready  smile,  the  loving  embrace,  lay  something 
deeper,  only  waiting  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand  to  stir  it  into 
a  vigorous,  seething  life. 

So  the  spring  and  early  summer  passed.  Paul  and  his 
father  went  abroad  during  the  long  vacation,  and  to  Betty, 
counting  the  weeks  to  his  return,  came  a  feeling  of  anger, 
that  after  such  professions  of  love,  he  had  not  troubled  to 
stay  with  her  and  break  the  monotony.  True,  he  had  snatched 
a  couple  of  days  before  he  started,  and  his  letters  were  as  fre- 
quent as  possible  for  letters  to  be ;  many  a  time  did  Mrs.  Chubbe 
remark  on  the  cost  of  franking.  But  there  was  a  reason  for 
Paul's  seeming  neglect.  Village  rumours  had  reached  his  ear, 
and  should  a  knight  allow  even  a  breath  to  tarnish  the  fair 
fame  of  his  princess?  Till  she  owned  to  loving  him,  even  if 
it  killed  him  he  would  not  molest  her.  To  carry  her  banner 
high  and  glorious,  unsullied  through  a  world  where  an  idle 
word  might  smirch  its  glittering  surface,  proclaiming  his  lady's 
beauty  and  virtue  throughout  Christendom,  might  have  been 
Paul's  mission  had  he  lived  in  earlier  ages.  As  it  was,  he  was 
only  conscious  of  a  hungry  desire  to  shield  and  protect  her 
from  everything  that  had  the  faintest  suspicion  of  ugliness. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  came  the  wild  longing  to 
take  her,  guard  her,  love  her — to  build  a  hedge  for  so  fair  a 
flower,  a  high  wall  where  none  but  he  could  enter — a  garden 


254  When  Pan  Pipes 

of  flowers,  of  sunshine,  of  everlasting  love.  For  such  is  love's 
young  dream — and  youth  knows  not  that  true  love  is  free- 
dom, that  its  chains  are  rosy  garlands  reaching  throughout 
space,  yet  ever  drawing  their  captives  with  them.  And  amongst 
Pan's  merry  May  music  which  calls  to  lovers  and  loved  ones, 
runs  the  harshness  of  spring,  of  youth,  of  nature ;  but  beneath, 
to  those  who  can  hear  it,  flows  a  deeper,  fuller  strain,  melodi- 
ous, ever  recurring. 

He  whispered  something  of  this  while  urging  his  suit,  and 
the  whisper  woke  Betty's  vanity,  making  her  toss  her  saucy 
head  till  the  red-gold  curls  glittered  again. 

"How  silly  you  are,  Paul,"  she  cried ;  "as  though  I  couldn't 
take  care  of  myself."  He  caught  her,  holding  her  close  in  spite 
of  her  laughing  struggles. 

"Betty,  Betty,  give  me  the  right  to  guard  you,  to  come 
here  openly  as  your  lover.  You're  so  young  and  pretty,  and," 
his  voice  dropped  to  the  old  words,  the  world's  refrain,  "I 
love  you,  Betty,  I  love  you  so."  She  freed  herself,  still  laugh- 
ing, her  breath  coming  quick  with  the  exertion,  her  face 
flushed. 

"I  don't  want  to,  Paul ;  I  keep  telling  you ;  not  yet,  anyhow." 
He  stood  for  a  moment  gravely  watching  her;  then  took  her 
hands. 

"Betty,  I  can't  wait  much  longer.  I  must  know  before  I 
return  to  Oxford ;  you  must  tell  me  when  I  come  back."  She 
loosened  a  hand  and  slipped  it  under  his  arm. 

"Very  well,  Paul,  I'll  tell  you  then — "  adding  saucily,  "Per- 
haps." And  do  what  he  would,  he  could  get  no  other  answer. 

During  those  summer  months  she  did  her  work  as  usual, 
moving  demurely  among  the  feathered  brood,  patting  and 
kneading  the  butter  in  the  cool  dairy,  and  only  she  herself 
knew  the  turmoil  within — the  clamour  of  mixed  longings, 
of  love,  of  freedom,  and  the  dread  of  the  hive  of  bees  she 
would  bring  about  her  head  if  she  accepted  Paul.  The  count's 
anger,  Lady  Karen's  cold  contempt,  Lady  Kezzy's  tears  and 
disappointment,  the  gossip  of  the  village.  Betty,  refined  by 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight        255 

nature,  doubly  so  with  convent  training,  shrank  from  the  pic- 
ture. There  also  still  remained,  against  all  reason,  a  little 
pique  that  Paul  should  think  she  was  not  able  to  take  care  of 
herself.  Altogether,  Betty  was  in  that  state  of  mind  when  a 
diversion  proves  a  welcome  relief.  And  it  came,  suddenly 
overwhelming  her  with  its  quick  flood. 

Paul  returned,  but  not  to  Oxford.  Once  more  my  lord 
threw  open  the  doors  of  Cloudesley,  once  more  the  village 
roused  to  echoes  of  London  voices,  of  London  footfalls. 
Down  came  the  Marquis  of  Fleet,  still  in  his  travelling  berlin, 
an  old  man  now,  too  old  to  make  changes,  he  said ;  down  came 
Captain  Culpepper,  greyer,  somewhat  wrinkled,  but  upright  and 
soldierly,  as  becomes  an  officer  of  his  Majesty.  Down,  too, 
came  Lord  Henry  Sands,  no  longer  a  younger  brother.  Small- 
pox had  carried  off  the  duke  when  love  and  hope  had  tinted 
the  world  rose  colour.  The  title  descended,  sobering  the  wild 
young  peer.  No  longer  did  he  drive  tandem;  Sir  Francis 
Crewe  did  so  instead,  and  the  superb  black  horses,  perfectly 
matched,  fresh  and  fiery,  and  the  cold  handsome  features  of 
their  owner,  divided  between  them  the  admiration  of  the  vil- 
lagers. 

Again  the  great  gates  were  set  open,  again  the  quiet  house 
put  on  its  gala  dress,  again  my  lord  entertained  his  guests,  as 
royalty  entertains.  The  count  and  his  son  arrived  a  week  later ; 
they  had  been  detained  in  Paris,  and  Paul's  first  visit  was  to 
Betty — Betty,  loving,  sweet,  yet  still  undecided.  And  so,  from 
day  to  day,  she  put  off  her  answer,  now  almost  yielding,  now 
reiterating  the  demand  for  freedom,  till  the  Thursday  before 
the  Saturday  fixed  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  party. 

The  fortnight  had,  as  before,  tried  the  landlady's  patience. 
Well  for  those  servants  and  grooms  who  were  frequenters 
of  the  Cloudesley  Arms  that  its  mistress  had  no  hand  in  the 
serving  of  them;  they  might  have  heard  unpalatable  home 
truths.  Betty,  certainly,  no  longer  needed  watching ;  the  gaiety 
of  the  village  possessed  no  charm  for  her,  and  she  was  apt 
to  laugh  and  agree  with  her  aunt  when  she  wished  it  over. 


256  When  Pan  Pipes 

Very  few  of  the  company  knew  that  the  inn  covered  aught  but 
its  master  and  mistress. 

Yet  there  were  certain  of  the  older  guests  who  were  wel- 
comed by  Mr.  Chubbe  as  friends  of  the  past.  To  the  old 
marquis  and  one  or  two  others,  the  farmer  would  proudly, 
and  with  their  leave,  present  his  niece.  It  was  on  one  such 
occasion  that  Francis  Crewe  happened  to  be  of  the  party.  He 
had  accompanied  them,  half  from  an  invitation  to  do  so,  half 
to  while  away  an  hour  or  two  of  a  visit  only  undertaken  for 
personal  motives,  and  becoming  every  day  more  irksome. 

He  sat  somewhat  apart,  sipping  his  wine  and  letting  his 
thoughts  run  to  London.  The  conversation  had  turned  on 
topics  at  least  thirty  years  old,  of  no  interest  whatever  to  him. 
He  heard  the  door  open  behind,  the  talk  suddenly  flag.  Pres- 
ently a  light  footfall  passed  close  to  him,  a  soft  dress  brushed 
against  his  chair.  The  murmur  of  voices  went  on,  broken  by 
a  new  one,  clear,  low,  vibrating — the  voice  of  a  lady.  Won- 
dering somewhat,  he  raised  his  eyes.  She  was  pouring  out 
wine  for  the  marquis,  who  held  his  glass.  Standing  there,  the 
cobwebby  bottle  in  her  small  brown  hand,  the  dimples  coming 
and  going  in  her  sunburnt  face,  the  dark  eyes  coquettishly  low- 
ered, she  might  have  posed  for  Hebe. 

She  placed  the  bottle  on  the  table,  inclined  her  head  smil- 
ingly, as  the  marquis,  his  hand  on  his  heart,  bowed  in  courtly 
fashion  ere  he  lifted  his  glass  to  his  lips,  then  raised  her  head, 
caught  the  ardent  glance  fixed  upon  her  and  flushed  rosily  red. 
The  flush  spread  from  the  white  neck,  veiled  neath  its  muslin 
handkerchief,  to  the  roots  of  the  copper-gold  hair,  and  in  an 
instant  each  knew  that  remembrance  had  come  to  the  other. 

"By  gad,  what  a  beauty !"  murmured  Sir  Francis,  Cloudesley 
taking  on  a  new  value.  But  Betty  said  nothing,  only,  in  her 
room  that  night  the  hot  colour  surged  and  burned  as  she  thought 
of  that  other  time.  With  all  a  woman's  instinct  she  knew  that 
he  would  come  again,  and  the  sense  of  power  to  draw  a  fine 
London  gentleman  was  like  incense  to  Betty's  vanity.  He 
came,  a  message  from  my  ladies  to  Mrs.  Chubbe  on  the  subject 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         257 

of  dairy  produce,  forming  the  pretext.  Soft  words,  flattery, 
and  praise  of  the  landlady's  housewifery,  did  the  rest. 

Betty,  busy  making  elderberry  wine,  knew  that  the  hand- 
some bold  eyes  were  fixed  on  her,  knew  that  she  was  worth 
looking  at,  in  spite  of  the  plain  stuff  dress  and  crimson  stained 
fingers,  and,  with  a  shy  side  glance,  coyly  raised  the  long, 
curling  lashes.  It  was  enough.  Taking  a  measure  of  corn, 
she  started  out  to  the  yard;  within  five  minutes  he  joined  her, 
and,  half-frightened,  half-flattered,  Betty  chattered  gaily,  using 
all  her  girlish  arts  to  test  this  sudden  new-found  power. 

It  was  no  fresh  experience  to  Francis  Crewe;  yet  beauty 
such  as  this  came  not  every  day,  and  even  his  blunted  nature 
received  a  fresh  fillip  in  the  youthful  loveliness  and  innocent 
coquetries  of  this  country  maiden.  Fascinated,  he  found  his 
way  to  the  farmhouse  again  and  again.  Betty,  trying  her 
wings,  knew  them  to  be  strong  and  powerful,  and  forthwith 
began  that  dangerous  game  played  since  time  began — which 
will  be  played  till  time  is  no  more.  Little  wonder  that  Paul's 
answer  tarried.  But  of  Paul,  Betty  said  nothing,  and  the  days 
passed  in  one  delicious  flutter,  while  Cloudesley  no  longer 
seemed  irksome  to  Sir  Francis. 

The  last  day  came;  he  left  her,  after  extracting  a  half 
promise  to  allow  him  to  write.  In  the  afternoon  came  Paul, 
pleading,  urging,  using  every  argument  he  could  think  of; 
but  she  would  give  no  answer,  only  promising  to  love  him 
dearly  always — always,  and  perhaps,  some  day,  when  she  was 
quite,  quite  old  and  tired  of  seeing  things,  she  would  think 
about  getting  married.  But  to  the  suggestion  of  anything  more 
she  refused  to  listen.  So  Paul  had  to  leave,  his  fate  hanging 
in  the  balance. 

"But  you'll  write  to  me,  Betty,  won't  you?"  he  pleaded. 
"I  shall  write  every  day,  and  you  will  answer?  Dearest,  say 
you  will."  The  dark  arched  eyebrows  went  up;  there  was  a 
little  look  of  fear. 

"Paul,  you  mustn't  write  too  often.  Aunt  Martha  would 
wonder  and  ask  questions." 


258  When  Pan  Pipes 

"And  what  if  she  did?  Tell  her,  Betty."  She  shook  her 
head  decisively. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  be  scolded.  Oh,  Paul" — a  little  weary 
sigh — "I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  worry  so.  Can't  you  under- 
stand that  I  won't — I  won't,"  with  an  emphatic  stamp,  "be 
tied.  I'll  write,  sometimes,  and  you  can,  sometimes,  but  not 
too  often."  Again  came  the  feeling  of  protection,  the  remem- 
brance of  village  tongues.  He  knew  that  every  letter  was 
turned  over  and  commented  upon  by  the  post  mistress,  and, 
knowing  it,  he  understood. 

"Very  well,  Betty,  so  be  it.  I  shall  write  as  often  as  you 
let  me,  until  you  tell  me  it  is  too  often."  She  stretched  her 
white  arms  upwards  as  though  the  subject  wearied  her. 

"Don't  expect  too  much  from  me,"  she  said,  laughing;  "but 
I'll  write,  Paul,  I  really  will.  And  now  I  must  go;  it's  tea 
time,  and  Aunt  Martha  will  be  calling  me.  You  can  come  in 
before  you  go  to-morrow  and  say  good-bye." 

Church  Clock  struck  the  half  hour  after  six  as  he  hastened 
homewards.  Not  too  much  time  to  dress  for  the  seven  o'clock 
dinner.  It  was  a  state  affair  that  night — the  last  of  the  visit. 
Course  succeeded  course,  side  dishes  fluttered  in  between,  re- 
moves ushered  in  still  more  dishes,  and  when  at  last  the  glis- 
tening cloth  was  lifted,  and  the  dark  mahogany  reflected  silver 
gilt  epergnes  and  gleaming  candelabra,  it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock. 
Some  of  the  older  men  found  it  long,  and  after  the  usual  toasts 
of  "The  King— God  bless  him"  and  "The  Ladies,"  left  the 
room  with  their  host,  and  apologies  to  the  younger  men,  with- 
out sitting  long  over  the  port. 

The  thick,  rose-cut  decanters  went  round  and  round,  tongues, 
even  discreet  ones,  loosened,  stories,  light,  ribald,  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  toasts  were  given,  and  talk  veered  from 
gossip  to  scandal,  from  scandal  even  to  names.  There  was  a 
general  loosening  of  cravats,  flushed  faces  told  their  own  tale, 
and  through  it  all  ran  that  suggestion  of  self-control  relaxed, 
which  comes  with  wine.  It  was  the  moment  when  older  and 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         259 

wiser  men  would  have  dispersed  the  company.  Failing  that, 
glasses  were  re-filled,  more  toasts  given  and  drunk,  and  the 
excitement  grew  and  strained,  like  a  tightened  wire,  which, 
stretched  to  its  utmost  tension,  hummed  and  sang  higher, 
shriller,  to  breaking  point. 

Already  several  heads  nodded,  and  legs  stretched  further  be- 
neath the  polished  table.  Unsteady  hands  poured  more  wine, 
leaving  small  trickling  streams,  voices  grew  thicker,  and  the 
candles  burnt  low.  A  toast,  the  name  of  a  reigning  beauty, 
roused  every  man  for  a  moment,  though  he  sank  back  the  next. 
A  few,  only  slightly  the  worse  for  drink,  maintained  the  con- 
versation, if  conversation  it  could  be  called,  among  them  Sir 
Francis  Crewe,  upon  whom  no  wine  seemed  to  have  any  effect, 
and  Paul,  who,  from  no  great  liking  for  it,  had  drunk  sparingly. 
But  even  on  those  few  it  had  had  a  certain  effect. 

A  cavalry  officer,  who  had  been  dozing  heavily,  suddenly 
awoke,  stumbled  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  and  waving  a  glass 
in  his  unsteady  hands,  hiccoughed  the  name  of  a  well  known 
dancer. 

"  'Shure  you — gentlemen — most  peerlesh  beauty — in — in — 
thish — town.  Genelm'n — Louish — da — Shilva — Lile — Lu."  The 
company,  such  of  it  as  could,  stood  upon  its  legs,  glasses  waved 
frantically,  for  it  was  a  popular  toast. 

"Louise  da  Silva,  Little  Lu,"  came  the  shout,  and  each  man 
sank  back,  either  on  to  his  chair  or  the  floor,  sometimes  helped 
back,  sometimes  pushed  further  under.  Sir  Francis  rose,  his 
dark  face  flushed,  his  eyes  glittering,  the  lace  at  his  throat 
falling  open,  the  diamonds  on  his  fingers  flashing  as  he  lifted 
his  glass. 

"Gentlemen — Major  Crowley  has  given  us  as  a  toast,  an  elf 
— a  fairy — our  Lulu.  I'll  give  you  another  to  a  new  found 
beauty.  Gentlemen,  a  beauty,  to  whom  Louise  is  a  hag."  A 
little  subdued  hiss  went  round.  Sir  Francis  bowed.  "I  mean, 
gentlemen,  figuratively  speaking.  One  day,  perhaps,  you  your- 
selves may  judge  of  their  comparative  merits.  Gentlemen,  fill 


260  When  Pan  Pipes 

your  glasses  to  the  brim,  and  drink  deeply  to  the  greatest  beauty 
in  the  world,  the  daughter  of  the  Cloudesley  Arms — Betty 
Chubbe." 

"Betty  Chubbe,  Betty  Chubbe,"  came  the  roar  of  voices, 
the  tinkle  of  glasses,  the  scraping  of  heavy  chairs  quickly 
pushed  back.  Then  clear,  through  the  hubbub,  Paul's  voice. 

"Gentlemen,  I  call  upon  you  to  take  back  that  toast.  Sir 
Francis,  you  forget  yourself.  A  lady's  name  cannot  be  coupled 
with  the  name  of  a  London  light-o'-love.  Take  back  your 
toast,  I  say ;  apologise,  or,  by  the  Lord — " 

He  strode  to  the  end  of  the  table  where  Sir  Francis  stood, 
glass  in  hand,  staring  in  wonderment.  Presently  a  slow  smile 
of  enlightenment  curved  the  cynical  lips. 

"I  understand.  Gentlemen,  as  gentlemen,  we  understand. 
This,"  he  glanced  round,  the  curl  on  his  lips  deepening,  "this 
lady  belongs  to  our  friend."  He  bowed  to  Paul.  "I  hardly 
gave  him  credit  for  the  discovery  of  so  much  beauty.  Yet, 
under  the  circumstances,  I  fail  to  see  the  need  of  an  apology. 
The  lady  is  without  peer,  one  day  doubtless  will  be  the  toast 
of  every  club  in  London.  Gentlemen,  again  I  give  you,  Betty 
Chubbe." 

There  was  a  subdued  murmur,  like  the  threatening  of  a 
distant  storm.  Paul  moved  nearer,  his  voice,  thick  with  rage, 
controlled. 

"Again,  sir,  I  call  upon  you  to  apologise." 

Sir  Francis  smiled  slowly,  deliberately,  and  for  one  tense 
moment  the  two  men  held  each  other  in  check.  Paul  took  a 
step  nearer. 

"You  refuse,  sir — you  refuse?  Then,  by  God,  sir — "  he 
snatched  a  glass  of  wine  from  the  table  and  flung  it  furiously 
at  the  haughty  face  before  him,  "take  that." 

The  glass,  thick  and  heavy,  struck,  its  sharp  points  tear- 
ing the  pale  skin,  its  ruddy  contents  staining  the  white  ruffled 
shirt,  then  fell  to  the  ground,  struck  the  carved  table,  shivered 
and  broke.  But  before  it  could  touch,  the  tension  snapped. 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         261 

Closing  together,  the  two  men  grappled  and  gripped,  as  so  long 
ago  they  had  done  in  the  inn  parlour. 

Sobered  by  the  sudden  attack,  several  guests  dragged  them 
apart  by  main  force,  holding  each  in  spite  of  his  struggles. 
There  was  no  need.  Self-control  asserted  itself,  and  shaking 
himself  free,  Sir  Francis  stepped  forward,  the  smouldering 
rage  only  apparent  in  shaking  fingers  and  the  sullen  glare  in  his 
eyes. 

"Count  Paul,  you  will  give  me  satisfaction  for  this  insult." 
There  was  a  quick  stir  in  the  group  behind.  Paul  bowed. 

"At  your  pleasure,  Sir  Francis."  He  beckoned  to  the  officer 
so  unintentionally  the  promoter  of  the  quarrel,  who,  now  com- 
pletely sobered,  moved  nearer.  After  a  short  colloquy,  Paul 
turned. 

"Sir  Francis,  Major  Crowley  will  wait  upon  any  gentle- 
man you  may  elect  as  your  representative  at  his  convenience. 
May  I  suggest  that,  as  we  part  to-morrow,  the  sooner  this  little 
affair  is  settled  the  better  for  those  concerned  ?" 

They  faced  each  other  again,  and  instinctively  each  guest 
moved  closer.  There  was  something  in  the  atmosphere  which 
told  of  fierce  hatred  united  to  the  anger  of  provocation,  some- 
thing deeper,  of  longer  standing,  than  a  momentary  brawl  over 
a  lady's  name.  Sir  Francis  bowed. 

"The  sooner  the  better,  for  my  part.  Here — in  an  hour — 
when  you  please." 

"Then — "  Paul  took  out  his  watch,  calmly  regarding  it  as 
it  lay  in  his  hand,  the  bunch  of  handsome  seals  dangling  from 
the  fob  chain,  "shall  we  say  at  dawn?  That  is,  four  hours 
from  now." 

"As  you  please,"  replied  Sir  Francis,  putting  his  hand  be- 
fore his  face  to  conceal  a  well-feigned  yawn.  "My  friend 
Sir  Jasper  Vance,  and  Major  Crowley  will,  no  doubt,  settle  the 
preliminaries." 

Again  Paul  bowed,  and  both  men  turned  unconcernedly, 
as  though  there  had  been  no  break  in  the  evening's  amuse- 


262  When  Pan  Pipes 

ment.  But  all  thought  of  jollity  had  gone.  There  was  a 
vague  uneasiness  in  each  member  of  the  party,  a  general 
inclination  to  disperse,  and  within  an  hour  the  old  grey  house 
lay  silent  as  a  grave.  Only  those  four  concerned  kept  watch, 
and  the  ceremonious  preliminaries  being  disposed  of,  Major 
Crowley  and  Sir  Jasper  Vance  snatched  a  couple  of  hours' 
sleep. 

From  outside,  the  Moon's  golden  face  stared  in,  grave  and 
solemn.  He  looked  into  the  stately  roqm  where  my  lord  slept 
— a  dreamless,  unbroken  sleep,  the  sleep  of  those  who  have 
stifled  passion,  dulled  conscience,  and  shut  themselves  out  of 
the  living  world;  into  other  rooms,  where,  with  the  emblems 
of  civilisation  thrown  from  them,  men  became  equal;  along 
dim  corridors,  where  shadows  ran  swiftly,  noiselessly.  Black, 
grey,  golden,  they  passed,  and  entered  through  the  closed  doors. 
They  were  the  dreams — the  dreams,  which  at  night  haunt 
every  house.  Two  doors  they  passed,  for  the  inmates  were  not 
yet  ready  for  them,  perhaps  one  would  never  more  be  ready, 
or  perhaps,  in  his  last  long  sleep,  they  would  be  pleasant  com- 
pany, those  ghosts  of  daylight  thoughts. 

At  a  table  Paul  sat  writing;  there  was  much  to  be  done 
in  the  little  time  remaining,  letters,  injunctions,  messages. 
But  at  last  they  were  finished,  all  but  one,  that  one  so  difficult 
to  write. 

"Ah,  Betty,  Betty."  He  flung  his  arms  across  the  table, 
laying  his  head  upon  them.  "Betty,  darling,  if  I  die,  who'll 
look  after  you?"  And  in  that  last  solemn  hour  Paul  fell  on 
his  knees  and  prayed  as  only  those  pray  who  touch  death's 
dark  mantle.  "Shield  her,  O  God.  Be  with  her,  guardian 
angels.  Mary,  Mother,  look  down  and  keep  her  from  harm 
and  the  assaults  of  the  devil — from  the  world  and  its  tempta- 
tions." 

Slightly  comforted,  he  rose,  drew  paper  and  ink  towards 
him  and  wrote — wrote  till  Church  Clock's  warning  bade  him 
remember  the  night  was  passing.  The  flow  of  impassioned 
words,  of  longing,  was  finished,  practical  matters  took  its 


The  Goose-girl  and  White  Knight         263 

place,  the  last  injunction  being  the  most  important.  "Even 
if  I  live,  Betty,  there'll  be  danger.  Dearest,  I  shall  have  to 
flee  the  country  if  that  should  happen.  And  in  that  case, 
I  cannot  write  direct  to  you,  nor  you  to  me.  Dearest,  you 
will  write,  won't  you?  Send  them  to  Jerry,  and  I  will  do 
the  same.  He's  so  true  and  steady,  and  oh,  my  darling,  be 
careful.  Remember,  such  a  little  may  part  us  for  ever.  Only 
Jerry  will  have  my  address.  Burn  every  letter  you  receive 
from  me,  especially  this,  directly  you  have  read  it.  For  a  few 
weeks  I  dare  not  write;  it  would  not  be  safe.  But  when  the 
first  hue  and  cry  has  abated,  then  I  will  do  so,  and  every  mo- 
ment I  shall  be  thinking  of  you.  Betty,  Betty — don't  forget 
me.  Love  me,  darling,  and  perhaps,  who  knows,  this  trouble 
may  pass.  God  bless  you,  my  darling." 

"Yes,  it'll  pass — it'll  pass,"  said  Church  Clock,  as  he  struck 
four,  "as  all  things  pass."  The  Moon  beamed  softly  and 
turned  his  yellow  face  to  the  silver  fields,  the  deep  dark  lane, 
the  deserted  cottage.  Together  they  peeped  once  more  into 
the  empty  garret,  then,  with  smiling  glances,  into  the  little 
white  room  of  the  inn.  The  Moon's  bright  rays  fell  on  the 
narrow  bed,  on  the  wealth  of  red-gold  hair  tumbling  over  white 
pillows,  on  Betty's  small  face;  a  happy  smile  flitted  across  it, 
and  the  Moon's  round  visage  grew  rounder  as  he  smiled  back. 

"Such  happy,  happy  dreams,"  he  murmured ;  "will  they,  too, 
pass,  Church  Clock?" 

"Yes,  they'll  pass,  they'll  pass,"  ticked  Church  Clock.  "Yet 
sometimes  dreams  become  realities,  and  realities,  sooner  or 
later,  always  become  dreams." 


CHAPTER  IV 

HOW  THE  BLACK  KNIGHT  FOUGHT  THE  WHITE  KNIGHT  AND 

WAS  VANQUISHED;  AND  HOW  THE  GOOSE-GIRL 

CRIED  FOR  THE  MOON 

THERE  was  a  place  where  the  lane  broadened  out  into  a 
grass-grown  circle.  Here,  in  the  grey  twilight  which 
precedes  dawn,  came  Sir  Francis  and  his  second.  Close  be- 
hind him  followed  Paul  and  Major  Crowley.  The  surgeons, 
fetched  hurriedly  from  Channington,  were  already  in  their 
places.  All  four  men  wore  thick  warm  cloaks,  for  the  early 
October  morning  was  chilly. 

There  was  some  little  time  to  wait  for  daylight,  and  each 
employed  it  in  giving  last  messages ;  letters  and  more  important 
matters  having  been  previously  settled.  Then,  as  the  east 
grew  lighter,  the  seconds  met  together,  conferred,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  measure  the  ground,  their  principals  meanwhile  di- 
vesting themselves  of  their  heavy  wraps.  Both  wore  black 
beneath,  closely  buttoned.  Paul  had  choice  of  position,  and 
took  that  on  the  right ;  from  thence  he  could  see  the  chimney 
stack  of  the  inn,  and  a  gable  window  which  he  knew  to  be 
Betty's.  It  gave  him  confidence,  and  as  he  took  the  pistol 
from  Major  Crowley  a  flutter  of  excitement  seized  him.  What 
was  this  death  which  lurked  near?  What  was  beyond?  Ob- 
livion, dreams,  or  a  coming  again  ?  In  less  than  fifteen  minutes 
he  might  know  the  great  secret.  On  the  other  hand — he 
glanced  across  at  Sir  Francis.  To  all  appearance  he  was  in- 
different; carelessly  fingering  his  weapon,  he  chatted  idly  to 
Sir  Jasper.  Did  he,  too,  wonder?  The  dawn  lightened,  a 
tree  trunk  caught  his  eye,  and  for  the  time  became  the  most 
important  thing  in  the  world.  Its  outline  grew  more  definable ; 

264 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  265 

in  a  few  minutes  the  first  beam  of  morning  would  catch  its 
surface.  He  watched  idly,  the  murmuring  voices  reached  him, 
then  stopped.  The  seconds  withdrew,  and  Major  Crowley 
spoke. 

"There  is  still  time,  sir — an  apology — "  Paul  silenced  him 
with  as  haughty  a  gesture  as  that  of  Sir  Francis,  and  the 
two  gentlemen  again  consulted.  The  tree  trunk  stood  free  of 
shadows,  the  light  in  the  east  grew  and  grew.  A  shadowy 
radiance  hung,  then  brightened.  Clouds,  tipped  crimson, 
drifted  backwards;  like  a  curtain  the  shadows  fell  away,  and 
glorious  from  behind,  rose  the  sun.  A  ruddy  glow  spread 
over  all,  and  a  golden  beam  struck  the  tree  trunk.  The  watch- 
ing was  over,  and  Paul  breathed  again. 

"Gentlemen,  take  your  places.    When  I  give  the  word,  fire." 

The  two  seconds,  watches  in  hand,  compared  them,  said  a 
few  words  to  each  other  and  stood  upright.  A  hasty  adjust- 
ment of  attire,  a  glance  at  the  beauty  round,  then,  mechanically, 
each  looked  across  at  his  rival,  and  knew  that  the  hatred 
of  youth,  perhaps  an  older  hatred  still,  was  there — also,  the 
spirit  of  manhood,  the  glory  of  killing  one's  enemy,  the  cour- 
age which  comes  to  all  at  the  last.  The  seconds  drew  closer, 
their  pale  faces  tinged  with  the  crimson  of  the  dawn.  Paul 
lifted  his  pistol  and  covered  his  opponent;  Sir  Francis  did  the 
same.  A  stir — a  sudden  clearing  of  every  sense — "Fire !"  rang 
the  word,  and  together  the  two  shots  woke  the  echoes.  My- 
riads of  birds  roused  in  their  nests,  twittering  with  fear,  flut- 
tering the  leaves  as  they  rose  in  sudden  flight. 

Paul  stood  silent,  the  pistol  dropped  from  his  hand,  gazing 
at  the  still  form  opposite,  black  like  a  shadow,  on  the  green 
grass.  The  surgeons  were  stooping  over  him;  their  grave 
faces  grew  graver  as  they  undid  the  close  coat,  and  disclosed 
the  white  shirt  stained  crimson  as  the  dawn.  Hours  seemed 
to  pass,  yet  he  felt  nothing — not  even  awe.  The  surgeons 
moved.  One  rose,  and  turned  to  Major  Crowley.  Paul  heard 
the  words,  faintly,  as  from  another  sphere. 

"Get  your  man  away;  there's  no  chance."    He  knew  that 


266  When  Pan  Pipes 

his  friend  was  speaking,  speaking  in  his  ear.  Long  after,  the 
sense  of  what  he  said  came  back. 

"Paul,  we  must  go.  I've  got  horses  waiting  at  the  bottom 
of  the  lane;  there's  money.  Everything  else  will  be  sent  as 
soon  as  possible.  Come  away,  man — to  London  first,  and  then 
to  Dover,  and  by  the  first  boat  to  France.  We're  safe  there. 
Jasper  Vance  will  follow  when  he's  got  help." 

Mechanically  Paul  hurried  down  the  lane;  in  five  minutes 
the  clatter  of  hoofs  sounded  on  the  high  road  which  cut  be- 
tween the  lane  and  the  woods.  A  ploughman  stopped  to  stare 
open-mouthed.  Major  Crowley  stooped  as  he  passed,  and  bade 
him  go  to  the  top  of  the  lane. 

"There's  been  an  accident,  boy,  and  they  want  help."  But 
by  the  time  he  reached  the  place  it  was  empty;  only  the 
trodden  grass,  wet  in  places  with  something  darker  than  dew, 
and  a  torn  handkerchief,  showed  signs  of  what  had  happened, 
and  the  slow-footed  ploughboy  stood  and  gazed  in  wonder- 
ment. 

Meanwhile,  a  small  cavalcade  carefully  wended  its  way  over 
the  fields.  A  hurdle  hastily  torn  up  was  piled  with  cloaks, 
and  the  unconscious  body  laid  upon  it.  Two  farm  hands, 
summoned  from  their  work,  assisted  the  doctors,  and  having 
done  all  that  could  be  done,  Sir  Jasper  Vance  hastened  down 
the  lane,  mounted  the  remaining  horse,  and  rode  for  dear  life 
Londonwards. 

The  village  inn  had  before  this,  on  one  or  two  memorable 
occasions,  received  death.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  up  betimes — it  was 
churning  day — caught  sight  of  the  dark  procession  coming  to- 
wards the  back'us  door,  and  stopped,  silent  for  once,  in  utter 
amazement.  Into  the  stackyard  they  came,  the  hurdle  lifted 
steadily  over  the  stile. 

"Lord-a-mussey !"  ejaculated  the  farmer's  wife  softly,  "if 
'tain't  doctor  from  Channington,  an' — an' — "  The  red  cheeks 
paled,  the  hard  face  softened  as  she  saw  what  lay  upon  the 
stretcher. 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  267 

"W-who — is — it?"  she  whispered,  and  for  answer  the  doc- 
tor drew  aside  the  covering  cloak,  replacing  it  gently. 

"Lord-a-mussey !"  reiterated  Mrs.  Chubbe,  crossing  herself. 

"We  must  bring  him  in,  Mrs.  Chubbe.  Get  a  room  ready, 
not  upstairs."  She  fled,  calling  on  the  astonished  maids  as 
she  passed.  The  measured  tread  came  after  her,  and  as  she 
quickly  piled  pillows  on  the  table  they  carried  him  into  the 
little  inn  parlour,  closing  doors  and  drawing  curtains  to  shut 
out  prying  eyes. 

They  cut  away  the  closely  fitting  clothes,  covering  him  with 
blankets.  The  doctors  shook  their  heads  as  they  staunched 
and  dressed  the  wound,  Mrs.  Chubbe  standing  by  with  water 
and  basins.  "Is — is — he?"  she  whispered,  and  the  slight  in- 
clination told  her  the  surgeon's  answer. 

"But,  of  course,  everything  must  be  done,"  he  added, 
"though — "  with  a  shrug,  "it  is  useless."  At  last  it  was  over ; 
the  doctors  stood  up,  gravely  watching  the  still  form,  the  hand- 
some face,  rigid  and  cold,  then  turned  away,  and  demanded 
breakfast. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  mounted  guard  in  the  little  room.  Death  was 
no  unfamiliar  visitor  to  her;  but  this — so  sudden — so  unfore- 
seen— had  given  her  a  shock ;  moreover,  she  had  a  lurking  par- 
tiality for  the  dead  man;  his  good  looks,  fine  manners  and 
deferential  courtesy,  had  won  upon  her.  Few  women  could 
withstand  Francis  Crewe  when  he  put  forth  his  blandishments. 
She  stood  gazing — gazing — then  roused.  Her  glance  fell  on  a 
bottle  of  stimulant  used  by  the  doctors  and  left  standing  on 
the  mantelshelf.  She  lifted  it  to  put  it  in  its  accustomed  place, 
then,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  set  it  down  on  the  table  and 
looked  again  at  the  still  form. 

"Why  not  ?"  she  whispered ;  "he's  dead.  There  can't  be  no 
harm  in  tryin';  doctors  ain't  always  right." 

She  took  the  bottle  in  her  hand,  weighing  chances.  Then, 
with  her  usual  decision,  made  up  her  mind.  Pouring  a  few 
drops  into  a  teaspoon,  she  gently  inserted  it  between  the 


268  When  Pan  Pipes 

clenched  teeth,  then  waited.  It  trickled  out,  but  nothing 
daunted,  she  tried  again — again  and  again.  There  was  a  stir 
outside — the  doctors  were  returning.  Hastily  hiding  the  tell- 
tale spoon  she  let  them  in.  For  a  few  moments  they  stood 
silent,  uncovered,  then  whispered  a  few  directions  to  the  land- 
lady. 

"You  will  stay  with  him,  Mrs.  Chubbe,  till  we  return  from 
our  sad  errand.  Count  de  Cosse  must  be  told,  and  the  earl ; 
he  will  probably  be  moved  to  the  Hall  later  on  in  the  day. 
We  shall  spend  the  night  here;  doubtless  we  shall  be  needed. 
There  will,  of  course,  be  an  inquiry." 

The  farmer  accompanied  them  to  the  entrance.  Left  alone, 
his  wife  barred  the  door  and  once  more  applied  herself  to  her 
task.  Afterwards,  she  wondered  what  possessed  her  to  per- 
severe in  such  an  apparently  hopeless  case.  And  later  still, 
she  solved  the  enigma — "  'Twas  the  devil  hisself — lookin'  after 
his  own." 

For  an  hour  she  toiled.  The  sounds  of  everyday  life  fell 
unheeded  on  her  ears.  Sally,  at  the  door,  got  sharper  repri- 
mands than  usual.  "Drat  the  gals — comin'  here  just  out  o' 
idle  curiosity.  If  they  think  they're  coming  in,  well,  they  don't 
know  Martha  Chubbe." 

Drop  by  drop  the  strong  liquid  fell  between  the  tightly 
closed  teeth.  In  describing  the  process,  Mrs.  Chubbe  said 
that  there  was  a  time  when — it  might  have  been  her  fancy — 
but,  somehow,  there  didn't  seem  so  much  difficulty  in  forcing 
open  the  clenched  jaw.  Fancy  or  no  fancy,  it  gave  her  fresh 
encouragement.  And  here  it  may  be  mentioned  that  not  alto- 
gether for  Francis  Crewe's  sake  did  Mrs.  Chubbe  take  so  much 
trouble.  There  was  always  a  lurking  opinion,  hardly  owned 
to,  that  most  things,  if  left  to  her,  would  be  improved  upon. 

It  was  no  fancy.  Some  instinct  bade  her  hold  a  mirror 
to  the  white  lips.  A  dimness,  so  slight  that  it  was  almost 
imperceptible,  rested  a  second  on  the  clear  surface,  then  passed. 
Again  she  persevered,  and  an  hour  went  by.  But  there  was 
no  mistake  now;  Francis  Crevve  lived,  if  so  faint  a  spark  could 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  269 

be  called  life.  The  farmer  tried  the  door;  his  wife  quickly 
unbarred  it,  returning  at  once  to  her  task. 

"Why — why — missis.  Whatever  be  you  a-doin'  of?"  She 
held  up  a  warning  finger  and  beckoned.  Tip-toeing  across, 
he  stood  by  her.  She  held  the  mirror  again,  showing  him  the 
surface  in  silence.  Nodding  his  head,  he  watched  her  monot- 
onous task.  Even  as  he  stood  came  the  faint  flicker  of  an  eye- 
lid. 

"Go  fetch  doctors,"  whispered  his  wife,  in  an  excited  under- 
tone, and  the  farmer  tip-toed  again  to  the  door. 

"Who'd  ha'  thought  it  ?"  he  murmured ;  "who  iver— could — 
ha'  thought  it?" 

There  was  a  bustle  at  the  inn;  a  rushing  of  excited  legs 
from  every  field  and  farm  in  the  neighbourhood.  Even  mid- 
day dinner  suffered.  The  doctors,  with  angry  disapproval  at 
the  back  of  their  minds  that  a  layman — and  a  woman — should 
dare  to  interfere  and  resuscitate  life,  when  they  had  declared 
it  extinct,  showed  outward  delight,  and  complimented  the  land- 
lady on  her  promptitude  and  patience. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Chubbe,"  the  doctor's  tone  was  light,  "hav- 
ing brought  our — I  should  say,  your — patient  so  far,  you  must 
continue  the  treatment.  We  cannot  afford  to  lose  so  good  a 
nurse.  You've  brought  back  life;  whether  it  will  stay  is  an- 
other matter.  But  he  cannot  be  moved  from  here ;  indeed,  for 
a  day  or  so,  he  must  stay  just  where  he  is."  Mrs.  Chubbe 
curtseyed. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  sir,  for  the  poor  gentleman." 

"I'm  sure  you  will,"  replied  the  doctor,  adding  jocosely, 
"You  know  what  they  say  about  saving  a  drowning  man — 
eh?" 

"What's  that,  sir?" 

"Well,  perhaps  it  doesn't  apply  in  this  case.  But  it  is  said 
that  a  man  saved  from  the  sea  will  bring  trouble  upon  his 
rescuer."  The  landlady  smiled  grimly. 

"  'Twon't  apply  here,  sir.  There's  little  harm  a  gentleman 
like  Sir  Francis  would  do  to  a  poor  woman.  Besides,  in  a  few 


270  When  Pan  Pipes 

weeks  he'll  be  up  an'  away,  an'  forget  all  we  village  folk." 
Her  listener  shook  his  head. 

"Not  yet — not  yet.  I  should  not  like  to  say  how  long 
you'll  have  him  on  your  hands — more  than  a  few  weeks. 
But  you'll  be  at  no  loss,  mistress;  Sir  Francis  is  a  wealthy 
man." 

"Nay,  sir,  I'm  not  afeard  o'  that.  He's  always  been  gen- 
erous an'  free  wi'  his  money." 

And  Betty — upstairs  in  the  little  white  chamber,  oblivious  of 
cold,  of  bustle  below,  of  everything  save  her  own  thoughts — 
sat  on  and  on.  Paul's  letter,  delivered  into  her  hands  by  his 
own  man,  lay  on  her  lap,  and  the  dark  eyes,  soft  and  grave 
now  by  turns,  looked  thoughtfully  into  vacancy  or  rested  on 
the  familiar  handwriting. 

She  had  hardly  grasped  its  meaning.  That  Paul  wrote  it 
before  fighting  Sir  Francis  Crewe  she  understood.  She  had 
heard  that  gentlemen  sometimes  fought  each  other.  She  knew, 
too,  that  it  was  about  some  London  lady — that  much  had 
trickled  through  in  gossip;  Paul  had  not  mentioned  it — and 
that  he  had  killed  his  opponent,  and  had  had  to  flee  the  coun- 
try. But — and  here  was  the  troubling  wonder — who  was  the 
lady?  Hitherto  she  had  thought  of  Paul's  love  as  hers  only. 
Yet,  to  fight  and  kill  a  man  for  a  lady's  sake  must  mean  that 
he  loved  her.  It  is  true  that  every  line  of  the  letter  breathed 
passionate  devotion,  but  Betty's  vain  little  heart  wanted  more 
than  words.  No  one  had  ever  fought  for  her,  and  the  child- 
ish mind  built  up  visions  of  herself  as  a  grand  lady,  with  fine 
lovers  like — like  that  dead  man  below,  worshipping  her  very 
footprints,  ready  to  fight,  if  necessary  to  die  for  her.  And 
with  the  picture  came  thoughts  of  Sir  Francis.  His  dark  eyes, 
which  gazed  at  hers  so  boldly,  that  even  at  the  remembrance 
her  cheeks  burned  fiercely.  His  elegant  bearing,  the  deferen- 
tial manner  of  listening  to  her  chatter,  and  the  way  in  which, 
only  two  days  ago — she  blushed  hotly  again — he  had  lifted 
her  fingers  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them. 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  271 

She  glanced  down  at  the  small  hands  and  made  an  im- 
patient movement.  Ladies'  hands  were  white;  in  spite  of  all 
she  could  do,  hers  were  slightly  coarsened  by  work  and  expo- 
sure. She  glanced  again  at  the  letter.  Poor  Paul,  a  knight 
errant  indeed.  Her  thoughts  went  back — back  to  childhood. 
Little  things  came  to  her  memory,  small  kindnesses,  gifts, 
shieldings  from  blame,  and  Betty  knew  that  in  each  case  she 
had  been  the  culprit. 

Suddenly  came  the  thought  of  the  quarrel  in  the  inn  parlour. 
How  Paul  had  protected  her;  and  yet,  had  she  really  needed 
protection?  A  kiss  snatched  from  a  child,  what  was  it?  She 
had  been  silly  to  make  such  a  fuss.  Still,  Paul  was  good,  and 
a  few  tears  fell  as  she  thought  of  him  banished  to  a  distant 
country.  Betty's  ideas  of  law  were  vague.  His  father  and 
the  count  no  doubt  could  manage  things  so  that  he  would  come 
back  soon,  and  then  she  would  ask  him  about  the  London  lady. 
Meanwhile,  she  would  write  to  him  whenever  she  wrote  to 
Jerry.  With  these  comforting  thoughts  she  rose,  bathed  her 
eyes  in  cool  water,  and  went  downstairs.  Here,  indeed,  was 
news.  Sir  Francis  lived — thanks  to  her  aunt. 

It  was  two  days  before  there  was  any  real  improvement. 
Mrs.  Chubbe  spent  them  in  the  inn  parlour,  doors  barred  to 
all  save  her  husband  and  the  doctors;  even  to  the  earl,  who 
came  himself  to  inquire.  She  emerged  occasionally,  it  is  true, 
"as  cross  as  the  sticks,"  Sally  was  heard  to  observe,  gave  sharp 
orders,  scolded  right  and  left,  and  disappeared  again.  In  a 
week  the  best  chamber  of  the  inn  was  prepared — the  crimson 
hangings  of  the  great  bedstead  taken  down,  shaken  and  re- 
placed, the  best  sheets,  spun  by  the  farmer's  mother  and  only 
used  on  state  occasions,  brought  from  the  lavender-scented 
press,  the  knitted  counterpane — a  wonderful  thing  of  flowers 
and  leaves,  and  heavily  knotted  fringe — laid  on  top;  fires  lit, 
windows  closed,  and  the  bright  copper  warming-pan  filled  with 
clear  embers  and  moved  up  and  down  in  the  bed,  then  taken 
out,  as,  with  gentle  hands,  and  whispered  directions  from  Mrs. 


272  When  Pan  Pipes 

Chubbe,  the  farmer  and  doctors  lifted  the  sick  man  from  his 
impromptu  resting  place  to  the  comfortable  chamber  above, 
and  laid  him  between  the  sweet-smelling  linen. 

From  that  time  the  change  was  marked;  yet  weeks  went 
by  before  the  danger  was  entirely  past.  A  day  came  at  last 
when  he  was  allowed  to  leave  the  bed  for  a  short  time  in  the 
day.  Mrs.  Chubbe  relaxed  her  efforts,  even  allowing  a  village 
woman  to  share  the  nursing,  and  appeared  in  the  house  pale 
and  tired,  but  triumphant,  her  tongue,  after  its  complete  rest, 
going  faster  than  ever. 

"Did'st  ever  see  the  like?"  she  complained  bitterly  to  the 
farmer;  "turn  your  back  for  a  few  days,  and  they're  off,  an' 
the  work  left,  an'  the  place  all  o'  a  muck.  There's  dirt  here, 
an'  dust  there — an'  Betty's  as  bad — Dck — dck — to  think  that 
Sally,  who's  been  wi'  me  nigh  upon  ten  years,  couldn't  ha' 
remembered  my  ways,  an'  made  the  puddings  an'  mincemeat. 
There'll  be  Christmas  here,  an'  no  Christmas  fare,  an'  you'll 
be  the  first,  master,  to  scold  if  there  ain't  no  Christmas  pud- 
ding." 

"Well,  well,  missis,"  said  the  farmer  soothingly.  "Set  the 
wenches  to  it  at  once,  an'  if  needs  be,  get  a  hand  from  the 
village." 

"Nay,  that  I  never  will."  Mrs.  Chubbe's  face  and  voice 
were  rigid.  "I  never  have  had  help  in,  and  it  shan't  be  said 
that  Martha  Chubbe's  gettin'  old  and  can't  do  what  she  has 
done." 

Somehow  things  got  finished;  the  kitchen  once  more  satis- 
fied the  keen  eye  of  its  mistress,  who,  having  set  the  wheels 
of  the  household  running  smoothly,  had  time  to  look  further 
afield,  and  made  the  discovery  that  Betty  was  moping. 

"Misses  the  young  count,  I'll  be  bound,"  she  told  herself. 
"Well,  well,  he'll  be  back  in  a  few  months  now  the  danger's 
over." 

It  was  true,  but  perhaps  Mrs.  Chubbe's  vision  was  blurred 
by  personal  wishes.  Life  was  very  dull  to  Betty.  She  sadly 
missed  the  company,  the  gaiety  and  commotion  which  had  hung 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  273 

over  the  village  before  the  departure  of  my  lord's  guests. 
More  than  that,  too,  was  the  miss  of  Sir  Francis  Crewe's  visits, 
the  timing  of  them  to  avoid  Paul's,  and  the  delightful  excite- 
ment of  two  admirers. 

She  wished  Paul  would  come  back,  that  she  could  go  to 
him,  that  Sir  Francis  would  get  well  enough  to  come  down- 
stairs and  talk  to  her — anything,  to  break  the  dull  monotony. 
And  to  crown  Betty's  discontent,  came  a  letter  from  Lady 
Alary  telling  her  that  she  was  to  leave  the  convent  in  January, 
to  spend  the  year  with  her  father  in  London. 

"But,  Betty  dear,"  she  wrote,  "I  have  no  wish  to  enter  the 
gay  world.  Every  day  I  shall  count  as  lost  from  the  beauti- 
ful life  before  me.  You  know  how  peaceful  the  convent  is. 
Oh,  Betty,  I  can  hardly  be  grateful  enough  to  my  father  for 
letting  me  devote  my  life  to  religion.  The  time  will  be  one 
long  dream  of  holy  peace.  I  am  frightened  when  I  think  of 
the  wickedness  outside,  and  that  for  a  time  I  must  see  some- 
thing of  it.  I  wish  my  father  would  let  me  go  to  Cloudesley, 
to  my  aunts;  I  know  they  want  to  have  me,  but  he  refuses, 
and  my  obedience  is  to  him.  So,  dear  Betty,  unless  I  come  on 
a  visit,  I  shall  not  see  you.  But  you  will  write  to  me,  won't 
you,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  my  life  in  London."  Betty  read 
it  through,  then  sighed  and  beat  her  little  foot  impatiently. 

"Why  aren't  things  fairly  divided?"  she  cried  angrily. 
"Why  can't  my  lady  stay  in  the  convent  and  I  take  her  place  ? 
It's  a  shame — a  shame." 

But  thus  is  life — a  longing  for  the  unattainable,  and  every 
man  thinks  his  pack  heavier  than  his  neighbour's. 

Paul's  letter  came  at  length.  He  was  moving  restlessly 
from  one  place  to  another  and  the  good  news  had  not  yet 
reached  him.  Betty,  in  her  discontent,  harboured  feelings  of 
resentment  against  everyone.  Why  could  not  Paul  have  told 
her  the  reason  of  the  quarrel?  Why  did  he  not  trust  her  with 
his  address?  Why  this  and  why  that,  till  never  a  blacker 
world  was  made  than  that  in  which  she  lived.  Too  much  in 
awe  of  her  aunt  to  show  temper,  she  did  her  work  as  usual, 


274  When  Pan  Pipes 

only  the  sparkling  charm  was  gone,  and  a  cheerless  apathy 
characterised  every  movement.  Hence  Mrs.  Chubbe's  term, 
moping. 

Towards  Christmas  the  atmosphere  cleared.  Bright,  frosty 
mornings,  busy  preparations,  the  mysteries  of  Christmas  gifts, 
are  bound  to  have  an  effect  even  on  older  people ;  how  much 
more  on  a  young  careless  nature.  Once  more  Betty's  voice 
carolled  out,  the  gay  smile  came  back,  and  hope  whispered 
promises  of  delights  to  come.  Moreover,  Sir  Francis  was  to 
eat  his  Christmas  dinner  downstairs.  Mrs.  Chubbe,  looking 
upon  him  much  as  a  hen  looks  upon  its  offspring,  metaphoric- 
ally speaking,  gathered  him  under  her  wing,  shielding  from  in- 
quisitive eyes,  and  prepared  the  inn  parlour  for  his  reception. 
Betty  and  Sally,  assisted  by  the  farmer,  decked  the  great 
kitchen  with  boughs  of  evergreen  and  scarlet-berried  holly; 
the  gnarled  apple  tree  in  the  orchard  was  stripped  of  its  mistle- 
toe, which,  hung  on  the  huge  beam  running  across  the  ceiling, 
would  be  the  chief  feature  of  the  evening. 

Betty  pondered  in  her  mind,  as  they  passed  from  kitchen 
to  passages,  decking  bare  walls  and  corners,  to  the  parlour, 
which  was  to  be  a  bower  of  Christmas  greenery,  whether  it 
would  be  an  impertinence  to  hang  a  second  bunch.  Sally 
solved  the  difficulty  by  the  deed. 

"Poor  young  man,"  she  said,  tying  up  the  stiff  sprigs,  "there 
won't  be  much  to  pleasure  him ;  no  grand  folk,  nor  fine  ladies. 
But  I'll  warrant  he  won't  taste  a  better  turkey'n  the  missis's, 
no,  not  in  all  London  town.  An'  he  wouldn't  find  a  bonnier 
lass  for  kissin*  than  you,  Miss  Betty,  I'll  be  bound.  Though, 
for  sure,  I'd  rather  be  kissed  by  our  Dickon  than  him.  I  dunna 
care  for  thin  cheeks  an'  black  eyes." 

Betty  coloured  at  the  girl's  remarks,  but  said  nothing; 
mistletoe  is  suggestive,  even  if  such  things  have  never  been 
thought  of  before.  When  it  came  to  the  critical  moment, 
when,  with  much  ceremony  and  deference  the  farmer  and 
Dickon  arrived  to  carry  their  guest  downstairs,  Sir  Francis 
took  matters  into  his  own  hands.  A  casual  word  acquainted 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  275 

him  with  his  destination,  and  a  flat  refusal  followed.  He 
would  join  the  family  dinner  party  in  the  kitchen,  or  stay 
upstairs,  and  listening  to  the  merriment  below,  mope  his  heart 
out. 

In  vain  Mrs.  Chubbe — flattered,  no  doubt,  yet,  to  use  her 
own  expression,  "flummuxed" — protested,  urging  the  loss  of 
dignity,  the  bad  effect  of  excitement.  He  would  hear  noth- 
ing. A  compromise  was  made ;  the  chimney  corner  given  over 
to  him,  could  be  screened  off  if  necessary,  and  a  table  placed 
there  would  allow  him  to  see,  or  be  seen,  according  to  his 
fancy.  In  fact,  it  would  take  the  place  of  the  dais  of  years 
gone  by.  At  the  farm  meals,  lingered,  unknowingly,  the  cus- 
tom of  the  salt ;  the  household  sitting  below  the  break  of  tables, 
the  family  above. 

Even  to  the  satiated  sight  of  a  townsman  the  farm  kitchen 
presented  a  picture  of  warmth,  comfort,  even  beauty,  to  those 
who  saw  with  right  eyes.  The  fireplace,  piled  with  logs  half 
way  up  the  great  chimney,  flared  and  roared  a  cheery  welcome ; 
not  yet  had  it  settled  to  a  steady  glow.  Brasses,  copper,  silver, 
gleamed  and  sparkled,  red  bricks,  crimson  curtains  and  cush- 
ions gave  a  ruddy  tint,  oaken  beams  glimmered  dully,  and,  seen 
through  the  casement  windows,  were  trees  and  fields,  and  woods 
white  with  snow,  glittering  with  frost  as  the  pale  mid-day  sun 
caught  them. 

Mrs.  Chubbe  had  donned  her  best  black  silk  gown;  the 
bright  steel  of  the  carving  knife,  wielded  skilfully  by  the 
farmer,  reflected  the  scarlet  of  his  waistcoat,  the  ruddy  round- 
ness of  his  jovial  face.  Maids  and  men  curtseyed  and  scraped 
as  they  entered,  shy  and  awkward  in  the  consciousness  of  best 
clothes  and  the  presence  of  the  "quality." 

To  Sir  Francis  the  scene  was  new,  and  therefore  interesting. 
From  his  corner  he  surveyed  it  critically,  as  he  would  the 
setting  of  some  scene.  His  quick  eye  caught  the  sound  of 
light  footsteps  on  the  steep  wooden  stairs  which  ran  up 
behind  the  kitchen.  He  heard  the  door  in  the  wall  behind 
the  projecting  chimney  corner  open  and  shut.  More  curtsey- 


276  When  Pan  Pipes 

ing  from  the  maids,  shuffling  pulls  of  the  forelock  from  the 
men,  and  Betty  tripped  airily  in,  Betty  in  her  maroon  merino 
frock,  made  like  my  Lady  Mary's  own,  with  low  cut  bodice 
and  short  sleeves,  displaying  the  white  arms  and  neck,  shapely, 
though  as  yet  lacking  the  roundness  which  comes  with  ma- 
turity. The  red-gold  curls  were  piled  high,  here  and  there 
escaping  in  kinks  and  ringlets,  curling  and  clustering  over 
small  ears  and  white  forehead.  She  wore  no  ornament,  ex- 
cept the  gold  buckle,  Paul's  gift,  and  a  small  brooch,  teased  out 
of  her  aunt  in  a  weak  moment. 

No  longer  was  the  room  a  picture.  It  was  alive  with  vivid 
life — life  which  drew  him  in,  making  him  part  of  it.  The 
steaming  turkey,  the  great  sirloin,  was  real,  he  would  share 
it.  If  he  had  only  been  well  enough,  he  fancied  himself  tak- 
ing part  in  the  evening's  jollities;  kissing  Sally  and  Nancy 
— perhaps  Mrs.  Chubbe,  perhaps — a  thrill  ran  through  him 
as  his  eyes  turned  to  Betty;  to  the  crimson,  smiling  lips,  the 
soft  white  neck,  and  he  let  his  thoughts  wander  in  dreams. 

The  ice  thawed  as  dinner  proceeded.  With  healths  to  the 
master,  the  mistress,  and  young  miss,  men  and  maids  found 
tongue.  But  when  all  was  cleared  away,  the  hearth  swept, 
the  fire  made  up,  and  the  kettle  hung  for  tea,  the  farmer  and 
his  own  family  gathered  round,  with  many  apologies  to  their 
guest,  and  a  certain  stiffness,  which  Francis  Crewe,  putting 
forth  all  his  powers,  dispersed  in  a  short  time.  The  farmer, 
in  the  opposite  corner,  smoked  vigorously,  his  wife,  shorn  of 
her  everyday  occupations,  lacking  even  the  comfort  of  knitting, 
dozed  off.  Presently  the  farmer  laid  down  his  pipe,  and  again 
apologizing,  departed  for  the  usual  Sunday  afternoon  stroll 
round  barns  and  stackyards. 

Betty,  on  a  low  stool,  her  open  book  on  her  knee,  stared 
dreamily  into  the  glowing  fire,  conscious  of  the  dark  eyes 
gazing  at  her  with  an  expression  not  altogether  new — some- 
thing which  made  her  heart  thrill  and  beat  wildly,  and  the  hot 
blush  come  and  go  till  her  eyes  smarted  with  the  fire  from  her 
cheeks.  He  watched  it  rise,  from  snowy  shoulders,  up,  up, 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  277 

flushing  the  fair  neck,  the  pale  cheeks  rosy,  tipping  tiny  ears, 
higher,  till  it  met  and  vanished  beneath  red-gold  curls.  The 
look  deepened — ardent,  passionate.  There  was  a  surging  in 
Betty's  ears,  her  heart  beat  so  loudly  that  she  felt  sure  her 
aunt  would  hear  it.  Through  it  all  she  could  hear  every 
sound,  Mrs.  Chubbe's  deep  respirations,  the  crackle  of  the  fire, 
the  kettle  singing,  even  his  quick  breath  coming  and  going. 
It  was  painful,  yet  a  pain  which  she  would  not  have  exchanged 
for  any  pleasure. 

When  at  last  Mrs.  Chubbe  roused,  and  the  bustle  of  the 
day  began  again,  she  slipped  away  to  her  room  to  bathe  her 
hot  face  and  still  the  restless  beating  of  every  pulse.  Francis 
Crewe  smiled  as  he  followed  the  light  figure;  the  tedium  of 
illness  became  no  longer  tedium.  To  make  love  was  second 
nature ;  he  foresaw  an  easy  victory.  But  beneath  the  passion 
of  a  love  triumph  lay  a  deeper  passion  still,  the  all  absorbing 
one  of  hatred.  Things  were  shaping  themselves  to  his  hand. 

Convalescence  came  quickly.  He  was  strong,  none  but  an 
exceptional  constitution  could  have  recovered  at  all,  the  doc- 
tors said.  But  there  were  weeks  before  he  would  be  his  own 
man  again.  The  inn  parlour  was  turned  over  to  him,  yet 
more  often  he  found  his  way  to  the  kitchen,  sitting  quietly  in 
the  chimney  corner,  watching  the  busy  household  go  its  way, 
meeting  the  glance  of  Betty's  bright  eyes,  every  now  and 
then  touching  her  hands  as  she  brought  him  a  cup  of  beef 
tea,  eggs,  milk,  or  one  of  the  numerous  dainties  concocted  by 
her  aunt  under  the  name  of  kitchen  physic.  For  Mrs.  Chubbe, 
having  taken  matters  into  her  own  hands,  had  no  intention  of 
turning  back,  her  one  endeavour  being  to  get  her  patient  into 
such  a  condition  as  to  cap  every  previous  condition.  For  each 
pound  he  put  on  his  hostess  would  make  it  two.  And  Sir 
Francis  acquiesced  laughingly,  refusing  even  my  lord's  pressing 
invitation  to  stay  at  the  Hall. 

"No,  no,  Mrs.  Chubbe,"  he  said,  "you've  begun  the  job,  you 
must  finish  it."  And,  being  agreeable  to  all  concerned,  things 
went  on  as  usual. 


278  When  Pan  Pipes 

But  not  for  all.  To  restless  Betty,  longing  for  excitement, 
experience,  life's  tide  was  flowing  swiftly.  There  was  danger 
in  the  smoothly  rolling  flood,  subtle,  unguessed-of  depths. 
Stolen  moments  of  bliss,  when  he  could  let  his  ardent  glance 
run  riot,  and  the  blushes  might  come  and  go  with  no  fear  of 
watching  eyes.  Long  silences  in  the  afternoons,  when  the 
women  sewed,  and  Betty's  fingers  grew  hot  and  sticky  with 
the  knowledge  of  his  presence. 

Ah,  danger  lurked  close,  and  Pan's  music,  beneath  its  airy 
lightness,  had  a  note  of  menace,  of  warning.  Betty,  in  her 
lightheartedness,  looked  not  beyond  the  passing  hour,  nor 
thought  of  the  end,  yet  the  question  lay  at  the  back  of  her 
mind,  "Who  was  the  lady  for  whom  Paul  fought?"  One  day, 
she  told  herself,  she  would  ask  Sir  Francis;  he,  of  course, 
would  know. 

In  those  winter  days,  when  life  means  stagnation  for  older 
folk,  and  even  young  ones  need  an  outside  stimulus,  Sir  Fran- 
cis built  a  castle.  Not  the  airy,  glistening  fabric  of  dreams, 
rather  a  fortress  of  massive  walls,  of  dreary  dungeons,  of 
chains  and  misery.  Day  by  day  it  rose,  blacker,  gloomier,  a 
very  citadel  of  woe ;  only  to  its  creator  was  it  a  thing  of  beauty, 
for  a  warped  soul  sees  beauty  where  is  naught  but  hideousness. 

The  days  tripped  lightly  by.  Betty's  good  intentions  told 
her  to  write  to  Paul,  also  that  it  was  time  Jerry  had  a  letter. 
But  the  winter  days  were  short  and  fully  occupied,  and  it 
was  not  until  January  that  she  brought  herself  to  write.  The 
following  day,  with  the  thought  of  Paul  new  upon  her,  she 
found  the  opportunity  she  sought. 

"Missis,"  the  landlord's  face  appeared  round  the  door, 
"here's  tinker.  There's  them  pans  you  want  mendin',  ain't 
there  ?"  Mrs.  Chubbe  started  up,  dropping  her  work. 

"Ah,  so  he's  come  at  last.  I  thought  maybe  he'd  dropped 
into  a  fortune,  an'  given  up  the  tinkerin' " — this  by  way  of 
sarcasm.  "Sally,  bring  them  saucepans,  an'  the  shovel  you 
broke  last  week;  we'll  see  if  't  can  be  mended.  An'  p'raps 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  279 

he's  got  some  o'  they  tin  cutters.  There's  a  sight  o'  things 
we  be  needin'  of." 

She  bustled  out.  Betty,  certain  of  an  hour's  absence,  led 
the  conversation  to  my  ladies,  from  thence  to  the  Hall,  and 
backwards  to  the  company  in  the  autumn.  Sir  Francis  an- 
swered smiling,  yet  slightly  puzzled;  he  had  not  yet  found 
the  motive.  When  he  did,  his  heart  gave  a  leap;  it  was  the 
finishing  touch  to  his  castle,  the  corner  stone  for  which  he 
had  been  searching.  Henceforth  he  saw  a  solidity  hitherto 
wanting. 

"Isn't  it  very  exciting  to  fight  a  duel?"  asked  artless  Betty, 
stitching  vigorously  at  a  new  shirt  for  her  uncle. 

"Very,"  replied  Sir  Francis,  smiling  at  her. 

"And  doesn't  it  hurt  very  much  to  be  shot?" 

"No.  In  fact,  it  doesn't  hurt  at  all.  It's  the  coming  to  life 
again  which  hurts  most." 

"Oh!"  A  long  pause.  Betty's  needle  clicked  on  the  thim- 
ble ;  presently  she  went  on,  "It's  very  silly  to  fight  each  other, 
I  think." 

"It's  custom,  you  know,"  he  answered,  still  wondering ;  "and 
then  it  depends  a  great  deal  on  the  cause." 

Betty  raised  her  eyes,  suddenly  interested,  then  dropped 
them  again. 

"The  cause — oh,  yes,  of  course."  He  watched  her  silently, 
light  gradually  dawning. 

"What  was  the  cause  this  time?"  she  asked  at  length,  won- 
dering greatly  at  her  daring,  and  Sir  Francis  understood. 

"Well,"  he  began  slowly,  still  watching  the  bent  face,  "you 
know,  quarrels  between  gentlemen  generally  mean  one  of  two 
things,  cheating  at  cards,  or,  an  insult  to  a  lady." 

"And  ?"  queried  Betty  eagerly.  The  work  dropped,  she  had 
forgotten  her  mask.  Again  the  listener  smiled. 

"And,  in  this  case,  it  was  the  second  cause." 

"A  lady?"  He  inclined  his  head.  Betty's  eyes  dropped; 
she  picked  up  her  work  again. 


280  When  Pan  Pipes 

"And — w-who — was — the  lady?"  she  asked  timidly.  Sir 
Francis  shook  his  head  at  her  and  hesitated. 

"The  lady?  That's  rather  like  telling  tales  out  of  school, 
isn't  it,  Miss  Betty?"  The  scarlet  lips  pouted  gently,  the 
red-gold  head  turned  saucily. 

"I'm  sure  Paul  wouldn't  mind  me  knowing;  I'll  ask  him 
next  time  I  write,  if  you  won't  tell  me."  Again  he  hesitated, 
feeling  his  way. 

"There's  not  much  to  tell.  There  was  a  health  drunk,  and 
a  dispute,  something  about  a  London  lady,  I  believe.  Indeed, 
I  hardly  know  what  it  was,  only  Count  Paul  took  the  matter 
up — and — " 

"But  who  was  it?    What  was  her  name?"  demanded  Betty. 

"Well,  if  you  persist  in  knowing,  her  name  is  Louise  da 
Silva."  Betty  was  silent,  counting  threads — three  forwards — 
three  back  again.  She  lifted  the  work  and  slowly  contemplated 
it,  her  whole  mind  apparently  absorbed.  Not  till  she  had  set- 
tled to  it  again  did  she  speak. 

"What  a  pretty  name,  Louise  da  Silva.  Does  Paul  know 
her  well?" 

"Very  well  indeed,  I  believe."    Again  he  smiled. 

"You  must  know  a  person  very  well  to  fight  for  her." 

"Indeed  you  must."  Again  the  twisting  and  turning  of  the 
work,  again  a  silence. 

"Is  she — young?" 

"I  believe  so — quite  young." 

"And — and — is  she — beautiful?"     He  laughed  out. 

"Why,  yes,  Miss  Betty,  very  beautiful.  Men  don't  fight  for 
old  women,  nor  ugly  ones." 

"Don't  they?"  Something  seemed  to  hurt,  like  a  prick  at 
her  heart.  A  question  trembled  on  her  lips,  half  whispered 
it  came. 

"Do — men — love — the  ladies — they — fight  for?"  He  leaned 
forward,  bending  his  handsome  face  nearer,  with  an  amused 
expression. 

"Do  you  think  we'd  fight  for  anything  which  we  didn't 


The  Black  Knight  Vanquished  281 

value,    Betty?     Men   generally   want   what   they   fight    for." 

Her  face  was  low;  she  stabbed  her  needle  absently  into 
the  linen  before  her,  in  and  out,  in  and  out.  He  stooped  nearer 
to  catch  the  next  words. 

"Did — Paul?"  Unconsciously  his  voice  dropped  to  a  whis- 
per, he  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  closing  over  the  little  fingers. 

"Betty,  Paul  is  like  most  other  men.  You  know,  don't  you, 
'Men  were  deceivers  ever — to  one  thing  constant  never.' " 
Then,  in  a  graver  tone,  "Let  him  have  his  fling  now ;  his  wings 
will  soon  be  clipped,"  he  added  mysteriously. 

"How,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  Betty  looked  up,  startled ;  the 
close  grasp  tightened. 

"Didn't  you  know?  Men  in  Paul's  position  can't  do  quite 
as  they  like;  they  must  marry  for  worldly  reasons.  Paul's 
wife  is  chosen.  When  he  returns  from  abroad,  which  he  can 
do  now,  he  will  settle  down,  no  doubt." 

"And  then — will  he — forget — the  other  lady  ?" 

"Perhaps."  There  was  a  note  in  the  voice,  a  look  in  the 
eye  so  close  to  hers  which  made  Betty  flush  scarlet,  and,  draw- 
ing her  hand  away,  hurriedly  picked  up  her  work  again. 

Sir  Francis  leaned  back,  well  satisfied  to  let  the  seed  sown 
grow  without  further  help.  The  subject  was  dropped,  and 
the  shirt  progressed  rapidly.  The  crimson  died  from  her  face ; 
she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  Sir  Francis'  presence;  while 
he,  versed  in  that  dangerous  lore,  the  knowledge  of  women, 
understood,  and  realised  for  the  first  time,  that  with  a  little 
careful  play,  the  cards  were  his  and  the  game  won. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  BARGAIN  WITH   TOBY 

\  LTHOUGH  not  an  unfrequent  occurrence,  a  duel  between 
-tV  two  men  of  high  standing — the  cause,  a  lady's  name — 
was  of  sufficient  importance  to  make  town-talk  for  at  least 
nine  days.  Toby,  sorting  papers  in  the  quiet  of  the  October 
afternoon,  was  startled  by  the  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
paved  stones  of  the  square.  Before  he  could  reach  the  door 
Paul  entered,  and  Toby  held  up  his  hands  in  dismay  at  the 
travel-stained  garments,  the  worn  look  in  his  face.  He  pushed 
him  away  gently,  yet  decisively. 

"Don't  stop  me,  Toby;  I  want  Jerry.  See  to  my  horse, 
there's  a  good  fellow."  He  brushed  hastily  past  him,  taking 
the  broad  staircase  in  two  or  three  leaps,  and  leaving  Toby 
bewildered,  but  clear  as  to  the  necessity  for  food  and  an  im- 
promptu rub  down  for  the  panting,  foam-flecked  animal  out- 
side. 

"Jer — dear  old  fellow — don't  talk,  just  listen."  For  Jerry, 
startled  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  his  friend,  would  have 
greeted  him  with  questions  and  offers  of  assistance.  Hur- 
riedly Paul  poured  out  the  story,  omitting  nothing  but  Betty's 
name. 

"It  was  a  lady,  Jerry — I  can  tell  you  nothing  more ;  I  hope 
that  others  will  feel  the  same  about  it.  I  think  they  will; 
they  are  men  of  honour,  and  he — Jerry,  I've  blood  upon  my 
hands.  It  was  a  righteous  cause,  but  the  fact  remains,  I'm 
a  murderer.  Oh,  Jerry,  Jerry."  For  a  short  moment  he 
clasped  his  hands  before  his  eyes,  as  though  to  shut  out  re- 
membrance. Then,  dropping  them,  he  seized  Jerry's  and  be- 
gan again. 

282 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  283 

"There  will  be  letters.  I  dare  not  let  my  address  be  known ; 
I  do  not  even  know  it  myself  yet.  Jerry,  will  you  send  on 
any  I  enclose  to  their  right  destination,  and  any  that  come 
for  me?  I  will  send  to  you  directly  I  get  safely  there.  My 
father,  you'll  send  his  on,  won't  you?  and — and — there'll  be 
others;  Betty — and — and — oh,  you'll  know  what  to  do.  And 
I  can  trust  you,  dear  old  fellow,  can't  I  ?" 

Jerry  had  no  words ;  he  gripped  the  slender  fingers  together 
and  nodded  his  head. 

"Some  day  it'll  come  right.  They  won't  search  for  me 
always ;  and  then  I  shall  come  back,  and  we'll  be  happy  again. 
Good-bye.  I  must  go ;  they're  waiting  for  me,  and  there's  no 
time  to  spare.  Good-bye,  Jer,  old  fellow — dear  old  fellow." 

"Good-bye,  Paul,  dear  old  Paul,  good-bye;  and  here's  to 
your  coming  again." 

They  shook  hands  again  and  again,  with  thoughts  too  deep 
for  words.  Jerry  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  There  was 
a  quick  greeting  and  good-bye  to  Reuben,  a  hearty  shake  of 
Toby's  hand;  then,  leaping  on  his  horse,  now  rested  and  fed 
and  impatient  to  be  off,  he  clattered  across  the  stones,  turned 
the  corner,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  was  gone. 

The  two  young  men  re-entered  the  house,  where  Reuben, 
who  had  his  share  of  curiosity,  awaited  explanations.  Jerry 
gave  them  slowly,  falteringly;  his  hearers  listened,  Toby  si- 
lently, the  Jew  breaking  in  with  ejaculations. 

"And  so  he  is  dead,  this  young  man,"  he  said  thoughtfully, 
when  Jerry  stopped.  "I  did  not  like  him,  but  it  is  a  terrible 
thing  to  be  hurried  out  of  life  in  health  and  strength,  and  the 
hey-day  of  youth.  Ach,  yes." 

Later  a  knock  came  at  Jerry's  door,  and  Toby  entered. 

"I  want  to  ask  you,  Jerry,"  he  begun  hurriedly,  "whether 
you  are  sure?  I  mean— did  your  friend  say — if  Sir  Francis 
is  really — dead?" 

"Paul  said  so,  yes,"  replied  Jerry,  surprised. 

"You're  sure,  quite  sure  ?"  queried  Toby,  still  in  that  curious 
anxious  whisper. 


284  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Yes,  quite  sure,  Toby.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  for  no  reason ;  I  only  wondered." 

So  did  Jerry,  and  more  still  when  supper  time  came  with- 
out Toby.  It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  returned,  making 
some  hurried  excuse  about  an  errand.  The  Jew  gave  him 
a  sharp  glance;  his  shaking  hands  and  white  face,  together 
with  a  restless  absent-mindedness  unlike  his  usual  cheery  brisk- 
ness, gave  the  impression  of  drink;  yet  something  else  contra- 
dicted it. 

Ill  news  travels  apace,  so  do  good  tidings.  The  story  of 
the  duel  had  hardly  reached  the  ears  of  an  intimate  circle, 
when,  hard  on  its  heels,  came  a  tale  of  the  marvellous  recov- 
ery of  one  of  the  principles.  The  tale  grew  to  certainty; 
in  the  hall  nothing  else  was  talked  of.  Rumours  flitted  about, 
taking  fantastic  shapes.  The  cause?  A  quarrel  at  cards,  a 
lady — what  lady  ?  Names  flew  openly,  others  were  whispered, 
but  nothing  definite  was  known  except  that  recovery  would 
be  long  and  tedious;  that,  it  was  practically  certain,  was  a 
foregone  conclusion;  a  man  is  not  raised  from  the  dead  to  be 
thrust  back  into,  a  wit  suggested,  "hell";  and  then,  thrashed 
out,  sucked  dry,  the  duel  was  thrust  into  the  dust  bin  of  for- 
gotten things.  An  elopement,  a  failure,  a  political  crisis,  took 
its  place,  and  only  a  shadow  remained  of  a  once  flourishing 
incident. 

The  slender,  elegant  figure  vanished  from  the  idle  crowd 
of  loungers  in  the  hall.  Was  it  that  which  made  Toby's  face 
regain  its  round  cheeriness?  It  seemed  to  Jerry  that  never 
before  had  such  lightheartedness  dwelt  in  the  old  house. 
Laughter,  mirth,  airy  talk  were  there,  and  Toby's  song  echoed 
constantly. 

Begone,  Dull  Care;  I  prithee,  bego-on  from  me; 

Begone,  Dull  Care ;  too  long  hast  thou  tarried  with  me. 

Long  time  it  is  since  thou  cam'st  here, 

And  f a-in  would'st  thou  me  ki-ill ; 

But  i'faith,  Dull  Care,  thou  never  shalt  ha-ave  thy  will. 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  285 

The  work,  too,  went  by  magic.  A  few  commissions  came 
along;  small  in  themselves,  but  heralds  of  greater  things, 
and  Jerry's  castle  began  to  grow.  Not  quickly,  it  is  true; 
something  was  lacking,  something  which  made  perfection  im- 
possible. No  sooner  was  it  complete  than  he  pulled  it  down. 
He  knew  the  reason;  he  knew  that,  within  the  rough  stone 
or  marble  dwelt  life,  only  waiting  the  master's  hand  to  chisel 
and  cut,  till  it  burst  its  bonds  asunder,  and  stood  free — perfect 
— glorious.  So  the  ideal  lay  buried  in  the  future;  destiny's 
chisel  must  do  its  work.  Sooner  or  later  it  would  emerge; 
some  day  the  castle  would  rise,  tower-capped,  rosy-hued,  glit- 
tering in  its  beauty.  So,  with  that  end  in  view,  he  worked 
steadily  on.  And  the  ancient  house  hummed  with  busy  work 
and  song ;  yet  Jerry,  remembering  other  times,  knew  that  it  is 
wisdom  to  be  happy  while  you  may.  Shadow  follows  sun- 
shine, comedy  is  only  tragedy  in  disguise,  and  mirth  turns  to 
tears,  by  Nature's  laws. 

There  was  no  news  of  the  Pan  or  other  pieces  of  sculpture. 
Reuben  failed  to  hear  of  them,  in  spite  of  every  endeavour, 
and  after  many  disappointments,  Jerry  grew  to  think  that  they 
had  gone  abroad,  perhaps  to  some  far-off  country,  where  even 
the  Jew  had  no  influence.  He  had  not  given  up  the  hope  of 
finding  them — no,  indeed ;  later,  when  he  could  rest  from  work 
and  had  won  the  golden  key  of  liberty,  he  would  search  the 
world  for  them.  Till  then,  patience. 

A  little  incident  upset  the  even  monotony  of  his  days.  In 
his  night  walks,  either  with  Reuben  or  alone,  he  looked  for 
Hester — that  he  would  meet  her  he  felt  sure,  and  by  night; 
for  some  reason  a  daylight  encounter  never  entered  his  mind. 

It  came  one  cold  October  night,  two  days  after  Paul's  fly- 
ing visit.  Going  along  the  Strand  the  dark  figure  flitted  across 
his  path,  and  down  a  zigzag  flight  of  steps  towards  the  river. 
He  followed  quickly;  the  woman  slackened  her  pace,  finally 
coming  to  a  standstill  by  an  old  boat,  moored  high  on  the 
muddy,  dirty  beach. 

"Hester." 


286  When  Pan  Pipes 

He  spoke  gently,  not  wishing  to  alarm  her,  but  she  was 
gazing  across  the  flowing  water,  wholly  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts.  Strange  thoughts,  they  seemed  to  be.  He  watched 
her  face.  There  was  something  new  in  it;  something  which 
made  its  former  beauty  fade  beside  a  greater.  The  face  was 
thinner,  and  the  straight,  regular  features  were  sharply  cut, 
as  by  a  chisel.  The  dark,  liquid  eyes  too,  were  softer  than 
of  yore,  but  it  was  not  that  which  enhanced  the  beauty;  it 
was  the  look  which  comes  from  experience  of  life,  and 
which,  though  he  knew  it  not,  was  growing  even  on  Jerry's 
face. 

"Hester."  This  time  he  touched  her  gently.  She  started, 
then  turned  quietly,  her  eyes  lighting  up. 

"Jerry;  why,  it's  little  Jerry."     He  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Hester,  why  are  you  here,  alone,  so  late?"     She  laughed. 

"I'm  used  to  being  alone.  But  don't  talk  of  me.  Come, 
let  us  walk,  and  tell  me  how  you  came  here,  and  what  you 
are  doing."  They  turned  away  from  the  river  and,  crossing 
the  Strand,  sought  the  more  secluded  streets  which  led  to- 
wards the  country.  She  listened  silently  as  he  told  her  the 
story,  from  the  widow's  death  to  the  time  of  his  departure. 

"And  so  you're  living  with  Reuben  Gade,"  she  said;  then 
repeated  slowly  and  meditatively,  "Reuben  Gade — pawnbroker," 
adding  with  a  mirthless  laugh,  "Don't  be  surprised,  Jerry,  if 
you  see  me  creep  in  some  night,  under  the  golden  balls,  through 
the  little  door,  where  poor  folk  go." 

"But  you're  not  poor,  Hester?"  He  glanced  curiously  down, 
and  wondered.  The  wind  blew  the  black  cloak  away,  and  the 
sheen  of  silken  stuff  showed  beneath.  She  gathered  it  close, 
and  the  rings  on  her  fingers  flashed  like  the  river  under  the 
noonday  sun. 

"No."  Again  the  hard  laugh.  "I'm  not  poor,  I'm  rich — 
rich  in  money,  in  beauty,  in  health,  in  all  the  world  calls 
good.  I'm  rich  too,  Jerry,"  she  caught  his  arm,  and  laughed 
low,  "in  love,  in  happiness;  at  least,"  the  laugh  died  away; 
she  looked  up  into  the  clear  sky  above,  "I  think  so.  But  it 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  287 

will  pass.  Ah,  God — "  she  sighed  wearily,  "it  will  pass.  Such 
happiness  does  not  last." 

"Nonsense,  Hester,  happiness  lasts."  She  shook  her  head, 
and  he  changed  the  subject. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself.    Where  do  you  live  ?" 

She  turned  her  face  to  his,  and  laughed  again  wildly. 
"Where  do  I  live?  Anywhere.  Here  to-day,  there  to-mor- 
row." He  looked  down  gravely,  not  understanding. 

"And  where  is— he?" 

"He?"     For  a  moment  she  seemed  surprised. 

"Yes.     He— the  minister— Mr. — " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  touch  and  a  long-drawn  breath. 
There  was  an  expression  in  her  face  which  recalled  the  widow. 

"Hester,  does  he  ill-treat  you  ?"  he  asked  sternly. 

"Ill-treat  me?"  She  lifted  her  head  proudly.  "He  would 
not  dare.  No,  Jerry."  There  was  a  scorn  in  her  tone,  the 
scarlet  lips  curled  bitterly.  "I  think  my  voice  would  call  him 
from  the  grave.  But,"  the  words  came  lightly  now,  "a  woman 
tires  of  adoration.  I  left  him,  long  ago." 

"Hester !"  There  was  reproof  in  Jerry's  tone,  yet  somehow 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  blame  her.  "Where  is  he  now?" 
he  asked  presently.  She  shook  her  head  slowly,  then  suddenly 
caught  his  arm  and  looked  into  his  face  with  an  expression  of 
fear. 

"I  don't  know.  Oh,  Jerry,  I  wish  I  did.  He  was  mad,  I 
think ;  he  used  to  frighten  me.  And  he  was  jealous  if  I  spoke 
or  looked  at  anyone  else.  At  such  times,  oh,  Jerry,"  a  shiver 
ran  through  her — she  clung  to  him,  "he  was  terrible.  Like 
something  horrible  let  loose.  He  went  away,  I  think,  and  for 
a  time  I  was  free.  But  lately,  just  lately,  I've  a  feeling  that 
he  is  back  in  London ;  that,"  her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper, 
and  she  glanced  fearfully  round,  "that  he  is  near  me — watch- 
ing. Jerry,  if  he  finds  me,  and  knows  my  happiness — "  the 
words  died  on  her  lips,  but  he  understood  what  she  did  not 
dare  to  put  into  words,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence.  Pres- 
ently she  spoke  again. 


288  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Jerry,  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you've  seen  me  and  spoken  to  me, 
but  you  must  never  do  it  again.  If  you  see  me,  take  no  notice ; 
go  on  your  way." 

"Why  do  you  say  such  a  thing,  Hester?  You  know  I 
couldn't  do  that." 

"But  you  must,  Jerry,"  she  cried  vehemently.  "You  must. 
If — if — what  I  feel — is  true;  if — he  sees  me  with  you — why, 
there  is  danger — danger  to  you  and  to  me."  She  shivered 
again.  He  drew  her  arm  through  his  protectingly. 

"You  are  fanciful,  Hester.  No  one  would  dare  to  hurt  you." 
She  smiled  wearily. 

"Ah,  Jerry,  you  don't  know  the  world.  It  is  an  easy  thing 
to  disappear  in  London.  A  woman  is  not  missed ;  not  one 
like  me,"  she  added  under  her  breath. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Hester?"  he  asked,  almost  angrily. 

"I  mean — "  she  broke  off;  then,  "Jerry,  if  you  should  ever 
think  of  me,  if,  in  your  happy,  busy  life,  you  should  ever  give 
a  thought  to  one  who  knew  happiness  only  for  such  a  short 
time,  if  you  would  find  my  grave,  why  then,  Jerry,  come  to 
the  river,  come  to  the  dark  arches,  the  steps  leading  to  it,  the 
deserted  beaches  and  wharves,  where  things  like  me  find  their 
last  resting-place."  He  turned  angrily  upon  her. 

"Hester,  you're  tired ;  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
We'll  turn  homewards."  They  retraced  their  steps.  As  they 
neared  the  Strand  she  stopped. 

"Leave  me  now,  Jerry.  Only  first  give  me  your  promise." 
He  shook  his  head,  but  she  stood  her  ground,  and  at  last, 
seeing  that  she  really  meant  it,  he  gave  a  reluctant  consent, 
inwardly  determining  to  find  a  way  to  break  it.  She  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

"But  I  shall  see  you  home,  Hester,  now,"  he  said.  Again 
she  refused. 

"I  tell  you,  Jerry,  I  have  no  home.  Where  I  go,  you  can- 
not come."  Then  laughing,  "Say  good-bye,  like  the  good, 
obedient  boy  you  always  were."  Again  he  remonstrated, 
argued,  but  she  was  firm. 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  289 

"Good-bye,  Jerry,"  she  cried  at  length,  breaking  from  him. 
He  would  have  caught  her,  but  she  evaded  him,  and,  slipping 
across  the  road,  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

He  went  home  thoughtfully,  pondering  over  another  of  Lon- 
don's mysteries.  Hester  Dyke  was  nothing  to  him;  but  her 
strange  appearance,  the  handsome  dress  and  jewels,  told  their 
own  tale.  It  troubled  him  at  times,  though  he  knew  he  could 
do  nothing. 

Paul's  letters  came  thick  and  fast;  there  were  enclosures 
for  several  people,  but  the  ones  for  Betty  far  exceeded  even 
those  addressed  to  the  count.  Bits  of  news  trickled  through 
from  Cloudesley,  for  the  most  part  idle  gossip.  Sir  Francis 
was  better ;  he  had  been  moved  from  the  Hall ;  he  was  to 
be  brought  to  London.  The  count  was  ill  with  trouble  and 
suspense,  he  had  gone  to  join  his  son,  which  last  proved  to  be 
true.  Grey  Towers  was  shut  up  for  an  indefinite  period,  and, 
after  learning  Paul's  whereabouts,  Count  de  Cosse  had  taken 
the  first  packet  across  and  hastened  to  him. 

Life  was  very  sweet  to  several  people  that  winter.  To 
Jerry,  working  and  building;  apparently  to  Toby,  working 
and  singing;  to  Reuben,  because  others  were  happy.  And 
down  in  little  Cloudesley  it  was  sweet  with  a  more  dangerous 
sweetness. 

Day  by  day  Francis  Crewe  added  another  stone  to  his 
fortress,  another  link  in  the  chain,  and  Betty,  like  a  little 
bird  lured  by  the  fascination  of  a  brilliant  snake,  drew  nearer 
the  silken  web  spun  to  catch  beautiful  things  of  this  world, 
and  turn  them  to  those  evil  shapes  and  forms  which  lurk  by 
night  in  the  narrow  streets  and  byways  of  London  city. 

Christmas  came  and  went.  The  old  year  died  and  the  new 
was  born — a  lusty  crowing  child  with  a  silver  spoon  in  its 
mouth — a  new  year  to  be  remembered  till  time  is  no  more, 
for  it  was  to  be  marked  by  the  accession  of  a  girl  queen,  a 
princess,  a  good  fairy. 

It  was  a  month  old  when  Francis  made  his  first  move  which 
was  to  end  in  checkmate  to  his  enemy.  For  some  time  after 


290  When  Pan  Pipes 

Paul's  departure,  Jerry  had  pondered  vaguely  over  the  little 
scene  which  he  had  witnessed.  Other  things  had  pushed  it 
into  the  background.  Now  something  happened  which  brought 
it  vividly  to  his  mind. 

The  narrow  street  had  grown  to  have  as  great  a  fascina- 
tion for  him  by  night  as  the  hall  had  by  day,  with  this  differ- 
ence. Tragedy  stalked  in  the  flickering  lamplight,  while  ro- 
mance followed  like  a  shadow ;  in  the  morning,  romance 
flaunted  in  brilliant  garments,  while  tragedy  lay  low,  like  a 
shadow  at  noonday,  only  waiting  for  the  sun's  decline  to  give 
it  dimensions. 

At  his  window,  reading  and  thinking,  Jerry  would  often 
linger  till  late  into  the  night.  Sitting  thus  one  evening,  his 
thoughts  intent  on  nothing  more  serious  than  whether  he 
should  go  downstairs  and  have  a  chat  with  Reuben  before 
retiring  to  rest,  he  was  suddenly  roused  by  an  indefinable 
feeling  that  the  street  was  not  empty.  He  rose,  put  out  the 
lamp,  and  screening  himself  behind  a  curtain,  watched.  Across 
the  road,  swiftly,  silently,  came  the  figure  of  a  woman.  He 
knew  it  again ;  stealthily  it  came,  till  it  stood  beneath  the  golden 
balls;  from  under  its  black  draperies  a  hand  was  lifted,  and 
a  muffled  tapping  fell  on  his  ears.  Quickly,  without  knowing 
why,  and  with  no  intention  of  spying,  he  pushed  open  a  win- 
dow. Almost  as  he  did  so,  the  door  of  the  boarded  wing 
opened,  a  short  colloquy  followed,  then  a  deep  groan,  which 
cut  him  to  the  heart  as  he  listened.  The  door  closed  silently ; 
the  figure  flitted  back,  disappearing  into  the  shadow  of  a  deep 
porch  opposite.  Toby's  footsteps  sounded  outside  his  door, 
and  Toby  himself  appeared  with  the  old  look  of  ghastly  fear. 

He  closed  the  door  securely,  then  caught  him  with  trembling 
fingers  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat. 

"Jerry,"  he  whispered,  "you're  my  friend,  I  know^  you're 
so  strong  and  trustworthy.  I  must  go  out,  he's  sent  for  me. 
Will  you  watch  and  let  me  in,  so  that  Reuben  doesn't  know? 
I  would  not  have  him  know,  for — not  for  all  I  could  see.  I 
may  be  all  night,  but  I  shall  come  back.  Will  you  ?" 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  291 

From  his  own  great  height,  Jerry  looked  down  into  the 
pleading  blue  eyes,  the  round  face,  made  for  cheery  good 
humour,  now  drawn  and  blanched  with  fear.  He  put  his  hands 
on  Toby's  shoulders. 

"Of  course  I'll  wait  and  let  you  in,"  he  answered  cheer- 
fully. "But,  Toby,"  his  voice  grew  grave,  "can't  you  tell  me 
what  is  troubling  you  ?  I  might  be  able  to  help." 

"No — no — I  can't — I  can't."  He  drew  himself  away,  wiping 
the  perspiration,  which  broke  in  great  beads,  from  his  face. 
"Oh,  Jerry,  I  wish  I  could — perhaps — some  day." 

Jerry  watched  him  with  almost  tender  solicitude.  He  knew 
fear,  though  not  fear  such  as  this.  Secrets  had  been  his  to 
hold,  though  not  such  as  this. 

Toby  pulled  himself  together,  wrung  Jerry's  hand,  and  hur- 
ried off.  A  minute  later  the  door  beneath  the  golden  balls 
opened  softly;  casting  a  quick  glance  round  he  paused,  then 
began  to  walk  slowly  down  the  street,  keeping  in  the  shadow 
of  the  wall.  He  had  not  gone  five  paces  when,  from  the  porch 
opposite,  the  woman  with  .noiseless  tread  flitted  lightly  after, 
overtaking  him  where  the  street  dissolved  into  dark  spaces. 
Jerry  sighed  and  dropped  the  curtain.  But  outside  another 
shadow  moved  stealthily  from  among  the  shadows,  creeping, 
lurking,  appearing  and  disappearing,  till  it,  too,  was  lost  in  the 
blackness. 

Toby  and  his  companion,  leaving  the  square,  passed  through 
the  narrow  streets,  finally  emerging  into  the  Strand.  The 
shadow  followed — now  visible  in  a  lamp's  pale  radiance,  now 
lost  in  the  darkness  of  blank  walls.  Out  in  the  busier  thor- 
oughfare it  found  lurking  places  in  doorways,  on  steps  running 
to  the  river,  in  the  entrances  to  foul  courts.  In  and  out  it 
went,  yet  ever  keeping  those  two  in  sight,  westwards,  then 
with  a  sharp  turn  to  the  south,  down  Whitehall,  then  westward 
again.  Snow  had  fallen  earlier  in  the  day;  in  the  traffic  of 
the  city  it  had  disappeared.  Here  it  lay,  and  as  the  moon 
rose,  the  stately  towers  and  ancient  pinnacles  of  St.  Stephen's 
and  the  abbey  gleamed  white  amongst  leafless  trees.  Black 


292 When  Pan  Pipes 

shadows  lay  on  the  ground,  those  of  the  two  hurrying  figures 
making  strange,  uncouth  movements  to  climb  walls  or  merge 
together.  But  the  shadow  behind,  in  the  blackness  where  the 
moon's  rays  did  not  penetrate,  was  but  a  shadow. 

On,  on  through  dull  streets,  till  they  came  to  another  square, 
compared  with  which  the  one  in  the  city  was  but  a  miniature. 
Its  houses  told  of  their  owners ;  wealth  and  rank  were  written 
on  each  solid,  grave  dwelling.  Here  and  there  a  chariot,  with 
men  in  livery  and  powder,  awaited  its  occupants,  while  behind 
were  glimpses  of  trim  gardens,  with  great  trees,  and  old  walls 
suggesting  sun-kissed  peaches  and  tawny  apricots. 

On  one  side,  occupying  nearly  the  whole  space,  stood  a  man- 
sion with  an  imposing  entrance.  Flights  of  marble  steps  ran 
up  to  a  terrace,  where  massive  lions  couchant  reposed  in  silent 
majesty.  On  the  great  gate-posts  more  lions,  rampant  now, 
held  shields,  that  all  might  read  the  story  of  the  house's  inmates. 

But  not  for  such  visitors  was  the  state  entrance.  The 
woman  flitted  noiselessly  down  a  side  alley,  and  taking  a 
key  from  the  folds  of  her  cloak,  unlocked  a  heavy  door,  pushed 
it  open,  and  beckoned  to  Toby.  The  shadow  behind  crept 
swiftly  after,  a  chink  of  yellow  light  fell  for  one  second  on  a 
white  face,  ghastly  in  its  pallor — the  door  closed,  darkness 
fell,  and  the  shadow  crouched  amidst  its  fellows  in  the  black- 
ness of  blank  walls. 

Through  paved  passages  the  woman  flitted,  coming  at  last 
to  the  main  hall,  a  place  of  spacious  arches  and  pillars.  Toby, 
as  he  passed,  gave  an  involuntary  shiver ;  the  floor  of  coloured 
marble  might  have  been  a  field  of  battle,  so  suggestive  was 
the  splashing  of  crimson  on  the  pure  whiteness.  A  staircase 
of  the  same,  with  gilded  balustrade,  ran  upwards,  while  through 
a  stained  glass  window,  the  moon's  light  threw  a  purple  stain 
on  to  the  breast  of  a  statue  of  "Mirth,"  giving  a  sinister  ex- 
pression to  the  laughing  radiant  figure. 

Footmen  in  gorgeous  liveries  stood  at  the  entrances,  but  with 
a  quiet  word  the  woman  passed  on  and  pointed  to  a  doorway 
behind  a  curtained  arch. 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  293 

"The  same  room,"  she  whispered.  "You  know  your  way." 
For  a  moment  she  waited  till  he  had  lifted  the  velvet  hangings, 
then  glided  quickly  away. 

Toby  knocked  at  the  heavy  door,  but  receiving  no  answer, 
opened  it  gently  and  went  in.  A  flood  of  soft  light  almost 
blinded  him,  the  heavy  scent  of  lilies  mingled  with  that  of  rich 
food  and  wine.  Hundreds  of  creamy  yellow  candles,  it  seemed 
to  him,  gleamed,  and  were  reflected  in  the  glistening  damask 
and  polished  silver  on  the  table. 

A  huge  log  fire  leaped  and  flickered  in  the  fireplace ;  before 
it,  half  hidden  by  the  deep  chair  in  which  he  reclined,  was  a 
slight  figure.  His  napkin  was  cast  on  the  floor,  the  decanter 
at  his  elbow  glowed  ruby  red  like  an  enchanted  crystal.  Toby 
waited,  waited,  while  the  golden-faced  clock,  standing  high  in 
a  recess,  ticked  and  ticked,  then  burst  into  a  wild  chime 
and  struck  twelve.  In  the  silence  which  followed,  a  con- 
sciousness of  another  personality  must  have  struck  the  oc- 
cupant of  the  chair;  he  raised  himself  slightly,  turning  his 
head. 

"Toby  Dingle!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  well  feigned 
surprise.  "Why,  to  be  sure,  I  sent  for  you.  Come,  man,  sit 
down,  and  forgive  this  seeming  lack  of  courtesy;  my  illness 
has  caused  memory  to  play  sad  tricks  lately."  Toby  advanced 
and  stood  silently  waiting. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  cried  the  other,  impatiently  waving 
to  a  chair.  But  he  stood  still. 

"No,  thank  you,  Sir  Francis,  I  prefer  to  stand." 

"Oh,  very  well,  very  well,"  then,  with  a  laugh,  "he  that  will 
not  when  he  may,  you  know.  However,  that's  neither  here 
nor  there.  You  got  my  message?"  Toby  inclined  his  head. 
"Good,  I've  a  trusty  messenger,  for  the  present,  at  least. 
Toby — trust  a  woman  while  she  loves — afterwards — "  he 
snapped  his  fingers,  gazed  moodily  into  the  fire,  then  roused, 
and  pushed  the  decanter  towards  his  guest.  Again  the  offer 
was  declined.  Sir  Francis  gave  him  a  quick  glance. 

"So,  you  neither  accept  my  hospitality  nor  drink  my  wine. 


294  When  Pan  Pipes 

Well,  perhaps  later  on."  He  poured  out  a  glass  for  himself, 
and  in  the  interval  Toby  found  his  voice. 

"Sir."  The  other  looked  up,  put  the  stopper  into  the  de- 
canter, and  leaning  back,  sipped  the  wine  leisurely,  while  he 
listened.  Toby  went  on,  gaining  courage  as  he  proceeded. 

"It  is  five  years  now,  since — since — "  he  faltered.  Sir  Fran- 
cis smiled  grimly. 

"Since — shall  we  speak  plainly,  Toby?     Since  you — " 

"No,  no,  sir,"  he  moved  forward,  as  though  to  check  the 
words,  speaking  in  a  hurried  undertone.  "Don't  say  it — 
don't  breathe  the  terrible  word.  Five  years,  five  years  of 
torture  and  misery,  of  pinching  and  scraping.  Ah,  sir — what 
is  a  sum  like  that  to  you?  You  do  not  understand  that  it 
means  my  all.  But  it  is  over  now — over — thank  God — thank 
God." 

The  breath  of  relief  made  the  other  look  up  and  slightly 
raise  his  eyebrows.  "Over?"  he  queried  softly. 

"Yes,  sir — by  God's  help  and  your  mercy.  Sir,  I'll  never 
forget  your  goodness.  So  long  as  I  live,  I'll  work  for  you, 
I'll  do  anything  for  you.  If  needs  be,  I  would  die  for  you. 
It's  been  a  hard  struggle,  but  it's  done.  Had  you  not  sent 
for  me,  I  would  have  come  directly  I  knew  you  were  back, 
and  brought  it  to  you.  For  it's  ready — ready — "  Ah,  the  joy 
in  the  voice !  "Only  waiting  your  acceptance ;  and  you'll  give 
me — the — the — "  he  turned  away,  hiding  his  face,  "and  then — 
freedom;  freedom  from  care,  such  as,  I  pray  God,  sir,  may 
never  be  yours." 

The  gasping  breath,  the  hurried  words,  the  sadness,  the 
joy,  the  tale  of  suffering,  might  have  softened  the  heart  of 
the  marble  figure  in  the  hall.  Sir  Francis  sat  forward  and 
set  the  glass  on  the  table,  twisting  it  idly  by  the  stem. 

"You  have  the  money,  eh?"  he  said,  presently. 

"Yes,  Sir  Francis,"  replied  Toby,  with  gleeful  eagerness. 

"Ah — "  a  silence — then,  with  a  quick  smile,  "You  count 
much  on  my  generosity?" 

"On  your  generosity,  sir,  and  your  promise." 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  295 

"And  my  promise — "  repeated  the  baronet,  musingly;  "which 
promise  I  will  redeem,  but — " 

"Sir,  oh,  sir — "  He  stepped  hastily  forward,  almost  touch- 
ing the  other.  Sir  Francis  waved  him  back. 

"Gently,  gently,  Toby,  my  good  fellow."  Then,  daintily 
fanning  the  air  with  a  scented  handkerchief,  "Pah,  you  bring 
with  you  the  scent  of  the  Jew,  the  scent  of  trade,  and  cheese, 
and  unpleasant  things.  However,  as  I  was  saying,"  he  paused 
a  moment,  tucking  the  handkerchief  into  a  small  pocket,  "I 
will  redeem  my  promise.  The — er — document — shall  be  yours ; 
the  money,  as  you  say,  is  a  flea  bite.  You  have  saved  it — keep 
it.  It  will  start  you,"  still  with  the  cynical  twist  of  the  thin 
lips,  "in  business." 

Hardly  able  to  believe  his  ears,  Toby  would  have  thrown 
himself  on  his  knees  before  his  benefactor,  but  Sir  Francis 
motioned  him  wearily  away. 

"My  good  fellow,  spare  me  heroics.  I  understand  your 
feelings  of  gratitude  and  respect  you  for  them.  Neverthe- 
less," he  paused,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  to  conceal 
the  uncontrollable  sneer  evoked  by  his  own  words,  "as,  but 
a  moment  ago,  you  very  kindly  said  if  necessity  arose  you 
would  die  for  me,  I  will  take  you  at  your  word,  although," 
the  sneer  changed  to  a  laugh — a  laugh  with  a  jeering  mockery 
in  it,  "I  do  not  ask  so  great  a  thing;  merely  a  small  task,  one 
which  will  occupy  you  perhaps  a  few  minutes ;  a  trifle  indeed, 
after  your  noble  professions  of  gratitude." 

Something  in  the  simple  words,  perhaps  in  the  drawling 
voice,  or  the  handsome,  contemptuous  curl  of  the  lips,  struck 
icy  cold  at  Toby's  heart.  He  stood  holding  the  mantelshelf. 

"A  trifle — "  he  repeated  mechanically. 

"I  said — a  trifle."  Like  a  thin  trickle  of  east  wind  came 
the  words.  "I  meant  a  trifle  compared  with  life,  either,"  again 
the  laugh,  "mine,  or — yours." 

Toby  shivered.  The  hall,  with  its  blood-red  splashes,  came 
vividly  before  him.  He  put  the  vision  aside  and  stood 
straight. 


296  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Anything  I  can,  sir,  I  will  be  only  too  glad  to  do." 

"That's  a  sensible  fellow,"  cried  Sir  Francis  heartily.  "And 
afterwards,  when  this  little  affair — I  hardly  need  tell  you,  Toby, 
that  it's  an  affaire  de  cceur,  you  understand — is  settled,  which 
I  hope  will  be  soon — say,  in  a  few  months." 

"A  few  months  ?"  echoed  Toby,  questioningly. 

"Hardly  less,  my  good  fellow;  a  lady  takes  her  own  time, 
you  see.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  when  it  is  settled,  I'll  make 
you  a  present  of  the  five  hundred  pounds,  and  also — the — er — 
the  document — you  prize  so  highly." 

Toby  stood  as  though  petrified.  Sir  Francis  leaned  back  in 
the  great  chair,  crossed  his  legs,  and  watched  him  with  an 
amused  expression. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "you  agree?" 

Toby  lifted  his  eyes,  full  of  a  grievous  disappointment. 

"Sir,  you  promised — "  he  stammered  f alteringly ;  the  baronet 
checked  him : 

"Quite  so.     I  promised,  and  will  perform." 

"But — but — forgive  me,  sir — I  understood — when  I  had  the 
money,  you  would — "  The  light,  easy  voice  interrupted : 

"Then  you  misunderstood,  my  man.  There  was  no  time 
limit;  I'm  not  a  fool.  But  now,  I  give  you  my  word,  my 
written  word,  if  it  please  you  better."  Toby  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir ;  I  could  not  hold  you  to  any  written  promise,  with- 
out disclosure." 

"Quite  so;  but — "  he  drew  himself  forward;  the  tone  was 
serious  now — even  the  listener  felt  no  mistrust,  "I  swear, 
Toby,  that  on  the  night  she  comes  here — "  He  broke  off 
suddenly  at  a  slight  sound.  "What's  that?"  he  whispered, 
looking  into  Toby's  terrified  face.  With  a  stride,  he  had  the 
door  open.  "No,  there's  no  one  there,"  he  said,  as  he  came 
back.  "Fancy,  no  doubt;  illness  has  strange  effects.  As  I 
was  saying,  you  shall  bring  her,  and  that  night  I  will  give  you 
the  paper  you  want,  and  the  money." 

"I  don't  want  the  money,  sir — only — the — other." 

"And  you  shall  have  it,  Toby."     He  rose  and  put  his  hands 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  297 

on  the  broad  shoulders,  standing  above  him.  "I  swear  it,  on 
my  honour  as  a  gentleman.  Do  this  for  me,  and  in  a  few 
months — before  the  year  is  out,  you  shall  be  free." 

"Free!"  A  deep,  shuddering  breath  told  of  the  agony  be- 
neath. "Well,  sir,  if  it  must  be,  it  must.  You  hold  my  fate. 
What  is  it  you  would  have  me  do?" 

"A  trifle,  Toby,  a  trifle ;  a  little  sleight  of  hand ;  to  you — " 
with  a  look  which  turned  Toby's  blood  to  water,  "simplicity 
itself ;  merely  to  intercept  certain  letters  and  bring  them  to  me. 
Really,  too  absurdly  simple." 

"Take  a  letter—"  cried  Toby,  horrified.  "But  that— would 
be — stealing."  The  baronet  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Call  it  what  you  please;  there  are  worse  names.  For  in- 
stance— " 

Toby  threw  up  his  arms  with  a  muffled  cry.  "Sir,  sir — don't 
say  it ;  the  terrible  word.  I'll  do  your  bidding." 

"Ah — "  drawled  the  baronet,  "strange — that  a  word  should 
have  so  great  an  effect."  He  dropped  back  into  his  chair  and 
filled  his  glass  again. 

"Where  are  these  letters  to  be  found,  sir?"  Toby's  voice 
was  flat  and  level,  the  voice  of  one  who  has  lost  hope. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  they  are  not  yet  written.  But  they  will 
be,  many  of  them ;  and  they  will  be  addressed  to  a  certain  per- 
son, by  name  Jerry  Dell." 

"Jerry  Dell,"  cried  Toby.  "Have  pity,  he  is  my  friend." 
The  baronet's  answer  was  drawling  and  slow. 

"Yes,  that  is  why  I  selected  you.  The  less  difficulty,  the  less 
suspicion.  These  letters  will  contain  others  to  various  people, 
mostly  of  no  importance  to  me.  Those  addressed  to  'Miss 
Betty  Chubbe,  Cloudesley,'  you  will  bring  to  me.  You  under- 
stand?" 

Toby  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  groaned.  Sir  Francis 
rose,  yawning,  as  though  to  terminate  the  interview. 

"All  letters,"  he  repeated  emphatically,  and  with  an  inex- 
orable decision  in  his  tone.  Toby  mechanically  put  on  his 
cloak ;  the  baronet  resumed  his  pleasant  manner. 


298  When  Pan  Pipes 

"A  glass  of  wine  before  you  go  into  the  cold  ?  No  ?  Then 
good-night.  Remember  the  bargain.  I  shall  not  forget  my 
part.  Good-night." 

"Good-night,  sir." 

Toby  turned  from  the  room  as  from  some  gilded  cage, 
through  the  red-flecked  hall,  into  the  fresh  night  air,  home- 
wards, where,  faithful  to  his  trust,  Jerry  waited.  As  he 
opened  the  little  door,  Toby  pushed  past  him  quickly.  A 
glance  at  his  face  almost  caused  him  to  drop  the  heavy  bar. 
Pinched,  haggard,  ghastly — it  was  the  face  of  a  stranger. 

"Don't  touch  me,  Jerry ;  don't  come  near  me.  I'm  lost — lost 
— damned  for  ever  and  ever — oh,  my  God !  my  God !" 

Jerry  caught  the  half-whispered  words  as  he  passed  quickly 
by;  he  was  after  him  with  a  bound,  catching  him  before  he 
could  go  far.  In  vain  Toby  struggled,  the  iron  grip  held  him. 

"I  don't  want  to  know  your  secret,  Toby,"  he  said,  "but 
you  shan't  go  like  this;  you're  not  fit  to  be  left  alone."  He 
stopped  struggling. 

"Jerry,  I  swear  I'll  do  nothing  violent;  I  promise,  I  can't 
afford  to  die — till — "  his  voice  dropped  still  lower,  "till — I've 
got  it  back."  With  this  he  let  him  go,  and  Toby  fled  upstairs. 
Jerry  bolted  the  door  and  followed;  but  that  night  he  spent 
outside  Toby's  door.  Not  till  the  sound  of  weary,  monotonous 
footsteps  had  stopped,  and  the  extinguished  light  told  that  rest 
had  come,  did  he  leave. 

Another  vigil  was  kept  that  night.  In  the  dark  shadow 
of  buttressed  walls  another  shadow  mingled — watching — wait- 
ing. Sir  Francis  turned  back  to  the  fire  as  the  door  closed, 
sniffing  disdainfully,  and  fanning  the  air  with  the  perfumed 
handkerchief.  Taking  a  handful  of  something  from  a  vase, 
he  threw  it  on  the  fire ;  a  pale,  scented  smoke  filled  the  room, 
and  sighing  in  a  relieved  way,  he  sank  back  into  the  chair, 
lifted  a  bowl  of  lilies  towards  him,  and  buried  his  face  in  them. 

Some  slight  sound  caused  him  to  lift  his  eyes,  his  face  still 
in  the  flowers.  A  woman  stepped  from  behind  the  massive 


A  Bargain  with  Toby  299 

screen  shutting  off  a  deep  window.  She  dropped  her  heavy 
mantle  and  hood  and  stood  before  him,  vivid  in  flaming  drap- 
eries of  scarlet ;  scarlet,  which  matched  her  lips  and  the  rich 
colour  in  her  cheeks.  He  set  down  the  jar  and  leaned  back, 
smiling  as  he  had  smiled  at  Toby. 

"Ah,  so  you  were  there,  were  you?  I  thought  as  much, 
when  I  opened  the  door." 

"And  you  let  me  stay?"  she  cried  fiercely.  He  raised  his 
eyebrows. 

"Certainly.    Why  not?    It  was  easier  than  to  tell  you." 

"You  would  have  told  me?"  She  moved  a  step  nearer, 
hanging  on  his  answer. 

"Why,  of  course.  It  would  have  been  necessary  to  tell 
you." 

"Yes,"  she  replied  bitterly.  "It's  well  to  be  off  with  the  old 
love—" 

"Quite  so,"  he  answered  quietly,  "when  there's  a  new  love 
to  be  on  with.  Like  most  women,"  with  a  shrug,  "you  rush 
at  conclusions.  My  love  is  the  same  as  it  has  been  for  two 
years."  Her  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"Why  lie  to  me,  Francis,  when  I  heard  with  my  own  ears? 
This  girl— this  Betty  Chubbe— " 

Sir  Francis  rose,  rested  his  arms  on  the  mantelshelf  and 
gazed  with  a  smile  of  mocking  amusement  at  the  handsome, 
passionate  face. 

"My  dear  girl,  why  put  yourself  into  this  rage?  Why  not 
ask  and  receive  an  explanation?" 

"Ask !"  She  laughed  scornfully.  "What  explanation  is  pos- 
sible?" 

"This."  He  stepped  close  to  her,  putting  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders;  so  close,  she  could  feel  his  breath  as  it  came  and 
went,  the  beating  of  his  heart,  the  thrill  of  something  deeper 
than  love ;  no  mere  love  had  ever  stirred  Francis  Crewe  in  this 
wise. 

"Hester,"  the  hands  tightened  their  hold,  "there's  a  passion 


300  When  Pan  Pipes 

stronger  than  love — it  is  hate.  This  girl  is  but  an  instrument ; 
through  her  my  vengeance  will  fall  on  him.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

She  nodded  slowly,  looking  him  through  and  through  with 
deep  eyes.  He  gave  her  look  for  look,  then  drew  her  close  to 
him. 

"You  do  not  love  me,  Francis?"  she  whispered.  For  an- 
swer he  bent  his  head,  leaving  a  long  kiss  on  her  neck.  With 
a  deep  sigh  she  dropped  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  lifting 
her  arms,  threw  them  round  him  with  a  fierce,  passionate  em- 
brace. 

"Francis,  I  think  sometimes  you  are  a  devil  in  man's  guise. 
But,  I  love  you — ah,  God — how  I  love  you." 

"Perhaps  for  that  very  reason,"  he  laughed.  "But  my  love 
is  yours,  Hester,  though  I  tell  you  candidly,  I  hate  more  than 
I  love." 

"And  I  will  help  you,  Francis — my  love — my  love.  Only 
love  me." 

The  candles  burned  low  in  their  sconces;  the  moon  waned, 
and  the  keen  morning  air  penetrated  even  the  warm,  perfumed 
room.  An  hour  before  the  wintry  dawn,  from  the  dense  black- 
ness of  the  wall  a  shadow  rose  from  its  place,  flinging  its  arms 
wildly  and  crying  as  it  ran — 

"  'Vengeance — vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord.  I  will 
repay.'  Nay,  Lord,  not  thine,  but  mine — mine.  Vengeance, 
vengeance,  on  this  great  city  of  Babylon,  where  the  Scarlet 
Woman  sits  enthroned.  Vengeance,  on  harlots  and  adulter- 
ers, on  thy  enemies,  and  mine,  O  Lord.  Vengeance,  venge- 
ance!" 

Windows  were  opened  here  and  there  as  he  passed,  but  Lon- 
don, for  the  most  part,  slept  the  sleep  of  early  morning,  and 
either  heard  not,  or  hearing,  did  not  heed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOW  THE  CASTLE  OF  THE  BLACK  KNIGHT  GREW,  AND  HOW 
JERRY  FOUND  A  FAIRY 

FROM  that  day  lightheartedness  fled  the  old  house  near  the 
Strand ;  the  spirit  of  work,  the  spirit  of  mirth  followed  in 
her  wake.  Toby's  song  was  no  longer  heard.  Jerry,  stealing 
from  his  room  night  after  night,  would  listen  to  the  restless 
footsteps;  backwards  and  forwards,  to  and  fro  they  went, 
while  every  now  and  then  a  heavy  sigh  broke  the  silence.  It 
was  echoed  by  the  patient  watcher  in  his  troubled  sympathy. 
Beyond  that  he  said  nothing,  knowing  that  a  forced  confidence 
is  worthless.  But  Toby  knew  that  his  burden  was  shared; 
there  were  occasional  night  excursions  when  Jerry,  waiting 
up,  let  him  in  without  questioning,  and  at  those  times  the  an- 
guish at  his  heart  was  well  nigh  uncontrollable. 

"Traitor,  wicked,  perjured  traitor!"  No  name  was  bad 
enough. 

The  letters  were  not  always  kept  by  Sir  Francis;  indeed, 
there  were  many  times  when,  after  reading,  he  would  return 
them  to  Toby  with  a  command  to  let  them  go.  He  noticed 
that  the  occasions  grew  wider  apart ;  the  baronet  had  his  game 
to  play,  too  sudden  a  move  might  awaken  suspicion,  and  to 
separate  the  lovers  while  making  love  himself,  required  all  his 
skill.  He  found  too,  that  Betty,  though  a  country  maiden 
unversed  in  worldly  ways,  was  by  no  means  lacking  in  intelli- 
gence. The  least  false  move,  the  smallest  slip,  and  she  would 
scent  a  lure,  and  he  might  whistle  for  his  castle. 

Betty  too,  had  her  own  little  game  to  play.  If  Paul  could 
make  love  to  two  people,  why,  then,  so  could  others.  She 
dropped  little  hints  in  her  letters,  "Sir  Francis  had  come  to 

301 


302  When  Pan  Pipes 

Cloudesley  by  the  coach  last  night;  he  was  charming,  her 
aunt  could  hardly  say  enough  in  his  praise."  Ah,  Betty,  such 
artless  coquetries  fall  like  small  winged  darts  in  a  usual  way, 
but  in  the  case  of  great  passions  they  are  as  poisoned  barbs, 
spreading  their  venom  and  contaminating  all. 

It  was  these  letters  which  Paul  received.  His  own,  which 
might  perhaps  have  had  healing  powers,  were  placed  care- 
fully in  a  locked  drawer,  alongside  of  another  packet  marked 
"from  my  Betty,"  also  a  document  inscribed  upon  which  was 
Toby's  name.  There  were  times  when,  like  some  evil  thing, 
Francis  Crewe  turned  to  them,  gloating  and  sneering  as  he 
read  them  again  and  again,  making  sure  that  nothing  had 
escaped  his  notice.  There  were  times,  too,  when  another  face 
bent  beside  his,  a  handsome,  passionate  face,  and  not  to  those 
eyes  was  revealed  a  knowledge  of  the  second  packet.  A  new 
love  had  come  to  Francis  Crewe,  but  not  for  him  was  the  old 
couplet,  "It's  well  to  be  off  with  the  old  love  before  you  are 
on  with  the  new."  Rather,  "It  is  well  to  have  two  strings  to 
your  bow." 

Paul,  in  his  exile,  heard  of  his  opponent  well  and  strong, 
and  would  have  hurried  home,  but  for  the  sudden  illness  of 
his  father.  The  shock,  the  unprepared,  comfortless  journey, 
had  told  on  a  constitution  none  too  robust,  and  the  warm 
south  being  recommended,  father  and  son  hastened  there  as 
soon  as  the  count  was  able  to  bear  removal.  It  was  a  bitter 
disappointment  to  Paul,  but  no  suspicion  of  duplicity  entered 
his  head,  and  though  Betty's  letters  were  few  and  far  between, 
he  thought  little  of  it,  knowing  her  careless  nature.  His  own 
were  full  of  a  passionate  love  and  explanations,  which  were 
so  much  waste  paper  as  far  as  Betty  was  concerned.  It  is  true 
that  Sir  Francis,  knowing  that  letters  were  received  by  my 
ladies,  preferred  to  tell  her  himself  of  the  count's  illness,  with 
a  slight  uplifting  of  his  black  eyebrows  at  Paul's  neglect. 

"A  triffing  indisposition,  he  would  be  travelling  in  a  day 
or  two,  no  doubt,"  and  "the  count  and  his  son  have  left  the 
little  village;  they  are  en  route  for  the  south;  from  thence 


Castle  of  the  Black  Knight  303 

they  go  to  Florence  and  Rome.  Ah,"  with  a  laugh,  "Paul  is 
a  clever  fellow,  manages  to  turn  an  unpleasant  incident  to  his 
advantage." 

And  Betty,  missing  the  letters,  angry  that  news  should  come 
from  any  but  Paul,  listened,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  little 
voice  which  whispered,  "Paul  is  true — have  patience — wait," 
and  surrendered  herself  to  the  pleasant  soothing  of  a  heart- 
ache. Sir  Francis'  soft  words,  his  subtle  flatteries,  the  pas- 
sionate look  in  his  eyes  as  they  followed  her,  were  as  balm 
to  a  wound.  The  poisoned  honey,  dropped  by  a  trained  hand, 
aided  by  a  few  apparently  careless  words,  did  its  work.  Paul 
should  see  she  didn't  care,  others  wanted  her  if  he  did  not. 
She  knew  every  movement  of  Louise  da  Silva,  who,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  was  fulfilling  an  engagement  in  Paris;  "spend- 
ing the  winter  there,"  Sir  Francis  told  her,  with  a  sneering 
laugh,  the  meaning  of  which  Betty  understood. 

The  baronet  held  in  his  hand  two  trump  cards;  an  oppor- 
tunity to  play  them  was  near  at  hand. 

The  witchery  of  the  springtime  is  a  tonic  to  love-making, 
and  the  spring  of  1838  surged  and  boiled,  and  almost  broke 
its  bonds  with  wild  patriotism,  loyalty,  and  passionate  romance. 
Newspapers  and  periodicals  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the  little 
princess,  preparing  for  a  responsibility  such  as  perhaps  never 
before  had  rested  on  so  fair  and  young  a  pair  of  shoulders. 
England  itself  was  one  pent  up  cry  of  emotions,  stifled  till, 
with  one  great  burst,  they  should  rend  the  air  on  that  great 
day  of  June.  What  wonder  that  a  small  paragraph  in  an 
obscure  paper,  whose  editor  was  open  to  a  bribe,  should  pass 
unnoticed  by  the  great  world. 

To  Betty,  already  knowing  the  sickness  of  heartache,  it 
brought  a  dull  numbing  of  the  pain.  The  final  blow  which 
strikes  down  love  for  ever,  had  fallen.  Henceforth,  she  would 
be  gay  and  merry,  she  would  never  again  believe  in  such  poor 
things  as  truth  and  love  and  faithfulness.  It  was  a  bitter  pill 
to  swallow,  but  she  did  it,  and  Francis  Crewe's  admiration  re- 
doubled as  he  watched  her  play  her  part. 


304  When  Pan  Pipes 


Not  even  to  him  did  she  reveal  the  anguish  at  her  heart; 
not  by  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid,  the  flutter  of  a  sigh,  did  she 
show  more  than  an  ordinary  interest  as  she  read  the  words, 
"We  have  it  on  excellent  authority  that  a  certain  well  known 

lady,  Mdlle.  L d —  S — v — ,  has  deserted  the  French 

capital  in  order  to  follow  an  equally  well  known  gentleman 
to  his  retreat  in  the  south,  where,  owing  to  the  illness  of  a 
relative,  he  will  spend  the  spring.  No  doubt  the  tedium  of 
attendance  on  a  sick  room  will  be  much  alleviated  by  the  pres- 
ence of  one  whose  name  spells  beauty,  wit,  and  charm." 

But  the  other  trump  card  required  more  delicate  handling, 
and  it  was  with  some  misgiving  that  the  baronet  sent  for 
Toby  once  more.  He  received  him  in  a  small,  oak  panelled 
room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and,  even  to  his  callous  nature, 
a  change  was  apparent.  The  past  weeks  had  done  their  work, 
taking  the  colour  from  his  cheeks,  the  comfortable  roundness 
from  his  figure.  He  brought  letters,  and  as  he  passed  them, 
Sir  Francis  noticed  that  the  trembling  fingers  were  thin  almost 
to  boniness.  The  baronet  sat  in  a  straight,  high-backed  chair, 
and  after  reading  the  letters,  put  them  into  the  steel-bound 
box,  whose  lid  remained  ostentatiously  open,  showing,  besides 
the  letters,  another  paper.  He  motioned  his  visitor  to  be 
seated,  and  Toby  obeyed ;  he  could  sit  at  his  ease  in  this  every- 
day room. 

"I  want  your  aid,  Toby,"  said  the  baronet,  coming  to  the 
point.  "This  little  affair  of  which  we  spoke  does  not  progress 
so  rapidly  as  I  could  wish.  It  wants  a  small  push,  a  fillip,  and 
you,  my  dear  fellow,  are  the  one  to  give  it.  It  is  the  last  serv- 
ice but  one  which  I  shall  require  from  you,  that  other  being 
to  fetch  the  lady  when  the  time  comes." 

"And  this  ?"  asked  Toby,  with  a  dull  apathy  which  even  the 
sight  of  the  paper  failed  to  disperse. 

"This?  Oh,  quite  a  small  matter  to  you,"  Toby  flinched 
at  the  accent;  "merely  to  copy  a  few  words  which  I  shall 
write,  purporting  to  come  from  the  lady  herself.  In  order 
that  you  may  accomplish  the  task  entirely  to  my  satisfaction 


Castle  of  the  Black  Knight  305 

I  must  ask  you  to  study  at  your  leisure  the  handwriting  of 
these  letters."  He  selected  one  or  two  and  handed  them 
over. 

"You  mean  you  wish  me  to  imitate  the  handwriting?"  Sir 
Francis  smiled. 

"You  take  me  exactly,  my  good  Toby.  It  is  pleasant  to 
transact  business  with  one  so  intelligent."  Toby  collected  the 
letters  and  put  them  carefully  away.  Sir  Francis  hummed 
a  light  air  and  carelessly  balanced  a  pen  on  the  tip  of  his 
finger,  but  no  movement  passed  unobserved  by  his  keen,  hawk- 
like eyes.  Toby's  blind  obedience  puzzled  him  slightly. 

"You  will  oblige  me  by  completing  the  copy  in  a  day  or  two," 
he  said  pleasantly,  as  his  visitor  took  his  hat. 

"Yes,  Sir  Francis."    The  baronet  frowned  as  the  door  shut. 

"Were  it  not  that  the  fellow  is  incapable  of  it,  I  might  sus- 
pect a  counterplot,"  he  muttered ;  then,  with  a  disdainful  ges- 
ture, "ridiculous,  pure  fancy.  The  fellow's  an  oaf,  a  clown; 
I  hold  him  in  my  hand." 

There  was  very  little  sleep  for  Jerry  that  night,  nor  for  many 
following.  The  restless  footsteps,  the  long  drawn  sighs,  wrung 
his  heart. 

"If  he  would  but  let  me  help,"  he  murmured,  as  he  stole 
away  in  the  early  morning  to  snatch  a  short  rest  before  the 
business  of  the  day  began.  The  cloud  grew  blacker,  heavier. 
Reuben  watched  his  companions  with  soft,  puzzled  eyes— eyes 
which  saw  clearly  to  the  bottom  of  things. 

"There  is  trouble  in  the  house,"  he  said  to  Jerry  one  eve- 
ning as  they  walked  together.  "You  think  I  do  not  see ;  that 
I  hear  not.  But  I  know — I  know.  There  are  messages  which 
kom  at  night — there  are  evil  things  which  lurk  outside,  and 
there  are  others  which  wear  the  clothes  of  honest  men.  And 
our  Toby  suffers.  Ach,"  he  sighed  deeply.  "It  is  a  strange, 
mad  world ;  I  know  not  what  exactly  is  his  care,  and  we  cannot 
ask.  Some  day  he  will  tell  us.  Meantime,  we  must  be  patient 
and  help  with  our  hearts." 

During  the  long  dreary  weeks  which  followed,  it  was  a 


306  When  Pan  Pipes 

relief  to  know  that  Reuben  shared  and  understood.  But  ah, 
the  heavy  weight  which  lay  on  the  once  gay  household.  At 
the  end  of  the  second  day  Toby's  task  was  finished.  Reading 
the  copy,  he  found  a  certain  satisfaction;  if  what  Sir  Francis 
said  was  true — and  he  had  no  reason  to  doubt  it — the  letter 
was  only  a  confirmation.  It  was  short — "Just  a  ^ew  words," 
it  ran,  "to  tell  you  that  I  am  to  marry  Sir  Francis  Crewe  within 
a  few  weeks.  Please  do  not  write,  nor  attempt  to  dissuade 
me ;  my  mind  is  firmly  made  up.  Neither  do  I  wish  this  spoken 
of  at  present ;  I  tell  you  first,  as  being  perhaps,  the  most  inter- 
ested." 

Toby  read  it  again  and  again ;  there  was  something  not  alto- 
gether satisfactory.  But  having  put  his  hand  to  the  plough  he 
turned  not  back,  and  the  letter  was  taken  to  the  baronet. 

Whatever  cloud  hung  over  the  Jew's  household,  it  was  not 
shared  from  without.  Never  had  London  seemed  so  fair. 
Lightheartedness  sang  through  the  crowded  streets,  mirth 
tripped  airily  along,  and  jollity,  with  clumsy  footsteps,  ambled 
cheerfully  beside  her.  The  scarlet  and  gold  of  royal  liveries 
became  an  everyday  sight,  dukes  and  duchesses  were  as  black- 
berries on  a  hedge,  celebrities  might  be  seen  at  any  time. 
Court  dressmakers  and  tailors  made  fortunes.  Out  came  the 
crimson  and  ermine  robes,  out  came  the  fabulous  old  lace,  the 
state  coaches,  the  liveries  and  powder,  wigs  and  silk  stockings, 
gold  lace  and  plush.  Coronets  were  taken  from  their  boxes, 
family  jewels  re-set,  the  old  abbey  cleaned  and  decorated,  and 
in  the  midst  of  it  all,  a  girl  queen,  young  and  fair,  with  thought- 
ful eyes  and  grave  demeanour,  awaited  the  event  which  was 
to  put  her  at  the  head  of  a  great  and  glorious  nation — a  nation 
which,  under  her  wise  rule,  was  to  become  greater  and  more 
glorious  still.  Little  wonder  that  England  stood  still  with 
bated  breath,  till  the  golden  crown  should  be  set  on  the  youth- 
ful head. 

Far  away,  in  little  country  villages,  loyal  love  showed  itself 
in  preparations  for  feasting.  Old  men  and  women  spoke 
of  past  coronations;  there  were  those  who  could  remember 


Castle  of  the  Black  Knight  307 

that  other  long  and  peaceful  reign  under  the  third  George. 
Young  ones  looked  forward  to  prosperous  trade,  to  glory  at 
home  and  abroad.  Many  a  fervent  prayer  went  up  for  the  fair 
young  queen,  and  English  hearts  swelled  with  love  and  pride, 
and  English  men  and  women  would  have  given  their  life-blood 
that  sunny  June  to  shield  her  from  even  the  shadow  of  harm. 
From  her  palace  came  messages  that  all  was  well,  and  England 
knew  that  the  maiden's  great  heart  had  met  and  mingled  with 
the  heart  of  her  kingdom,  that  her  first  and  purest  love  was 
given  to  her  country  and  her  people. 

At  last,  after  a  night  of  joyful  sleeplessness,  the  great  day 
dawned,  a  day  to  be  remembered  throughout  the  ages.  Lon- 
don, garbed  in  its  best,  went  abroad  to  see  all  that  was  to  be 
seen.  Flags  and  banners  fluttered  gaily  in  the  June  sunshine, 
and  for  many,  many  hours,  London's  streets  were  filled  with 
that  curious  phenomenon,  grave  almost  to  sadness,  yet,  there- 
fore, fuller,  perhaps,  of  deep  happiness — a  London  crowd. 

The  old  house  in  the  square  was  closed  like  its  fellows.  Reu- 
ben, gay  as  a  boy,  and  Jerry,  in  his  sober  way  equally  de- 
lighted, set  out  in  the  early  dawn.  Toby,  after  much  persua- 
sion, had  been  induced  to  accompany  them,  and  the  three  pairs 
of  broad  shoulders  cleared  a  way  easily  through  the  fighting, 
jostling,  yet  good-humoured  throng. 

Down  by  the  abbey  the  press  was  thickest,  but  strength 
prevailed,  and  the  three,  panting,  hot,  and  triumphant,  took 
up  their  places  at  a  spot  where  all  that  was  worth  seeing  was 
to  be  seen.  There  had  been  detours  by  the  way;  rescues  of 
small  children  and  frail  women.  Reuben  had  carried  a  baby 
for  many  yards,  and  even  now,  Jerry's  and  Toby's  broad  shoul- 
ders bore  small  boys,  eager  for  a  peep  over  the  seething  heads 
into  the  world  beyond. 

"Ach,  it  is  a  great  day,"  solemnly  asserted  the  Jew,  mop- 
ping his  head,  and  handing  cherries,  just  bought,  to  every 
child  within  reach.  The  sun  rose  higher  and  higher ;  under  its 
blazing,  scorching  rays,  the  panting,  perspiring  crowd  grew 
silent.  Each  minute  brought  fresh  interests.  Scarlet  and  gold 


308  When  Pan  Pipes 

of  mounted  troops,  the  dark,  brilliant  uniform  of  a  naval  offi- 
cer going  to  his  place,  the  silver  and  flaunting  colours  of  pow- 
dered footmen  mingled  with  the  pale  young  green  of  trees,  the 
deep  blue  of  summer  skies,  and  the  shadowy  greys  and  browns 
of  the  old  abbey,  smiling  as  it  remembered  other  crowds,  other 
fair  young  heads  bearing  crowns,  or  perhaps  sadly,  black-robed 
mourners,  softly  chanting  monks,  dim  candles,  and  white  flow- 
ers, and  always,  through  the  centuries,  pomp  and  ceremonial, 
majestic  dignity,  pride  of  age  and  ancestry,  with  a  knowledge 
that  in  the  ages  to  come,  its  old  stones,  though  perhaps  scat- 
tered, would  carry  always  those  same  proud  memories. 

Guests  began  to  arrive,  well  known  faces  seen  through  open 
carriage  windows;  glimpses  of  beautiful  women,  flashing  of 
precious  stones,  soft  sheen  of  ermine,  gleaming  of  white  arms 
and  shoulders.  The  crowd,  roused  to  enthusiasm,  cheered 
each  carriage.  Reuben,  with  all  the  ardent  excitement  of 
the  French  character,  shouted  and  cheered  till  forcibly  sup- 
pressed by  Jerry.  Even  Toby  roused  to  smiling  interest. 
Jerry  himself  looked  and  looked,  till  the  scene  seemed  to  min- 
gle into  one  dense  forest  of  colour  and  sound.  Suddenly  his 
vision  cleared,  things  stood  out  plain  and  distinct.  A  state 
carriage,  apparently  the  same  as  many  others,  yet  carrying  a 
well  known  crest  and  liveries,  was  passing  slowly  by,  and  his 
heart  stood  still  as  one  of  its  occupants  leaned  eagerly  for- 
ward. 

Crimson  ermine  and  flashing  stones,  paled  into  nothingness, 
only  a  sweet  face  looked,  it  seemed  to  him,  straight  into  his. 
Eyes  blue  as  the  skies  above,  golden  hair  beneath  a  radiance 
of  diamonds;  a  glimpse,  a  flash,  and  it  was  gone,  leaving  a 
sense  of  joy  in  his  heart,  a  knowledge  that  the  day's  happiness 
was  intensified  by  her  nearness.  He  watched  the  receding  car- 
riage, picturing  the  fair  face  among  other  fair  faces,  against 
the  rich  sombre  background  of  the  abbey,  and  he  knew  with 
a  triumphant  knowledge  that  others  would  fade  before  its 
beauty,  as  stars  fade  when  the  moon  appears. 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  sun,  weary  legs  shifted  and 


Castle  of  tlie  Black  Knight  309 

moved  their  owners  into  other  places;  the  crowd  surged  and 
swayed,  now  and  then  making  a  wild,  apparently  objectless, 
lurch  forward,  only  to  be  checked  by  the  mounted  troops. 
Children  slept  in  their  mothers'  arms,  older  ones  rested  their 
heads  against  any  support  forthcoming  and  dozed  fitfully. 
The  great  clock  struck  ten — even  as  it  did  so,  from  afar  off, 
came  a  deep  boom-boom,  and  the  crowd  roused  to  eagerness 
again. 

"She  is  starting,"  rang  the  hushed  whisper  from  a  million 
tongues,  and  as  it  died,  came  the  sound  of  music,  the  march- 
ing of  feet. 

On  it  came — the  great  procession,  mid  din  of  voices,  the 
hum  of  greeting;  on — on — to  their  allotted  places  went  the 
troops — then,  distant  yet,  but  clear,  the  sound  of  cheering, 
nearer  still,  the  hush,  which  precedes  some  great  event  stirred 
into  life,  as  leafy  trees  stir  at  the  coming  of  a  breeze. 

"She's  coming — she's  coming." 

The  pageant  moved  on — mid  the  gorgeousness  of  house- 
hold troops,  the  brilliant  uniforms  of  the  surrounding  guard, 
eight  fairy  ponies  drawing  a  glittering  fairy  coach,  and  inside 
a  young  girl,  quiet  and  sedate,  yet  no  doubt  with  fluttering 
heart  and  tearful  eyes,  and  hands  that  trembled  with  the  weight 
they  would  have  to  hold. 

The  hush  broke.  A  million  voices  raised  themselves,  a 
million  hearts  uttered  prayers  as  she  passed,  gracious,  smil- 
ing, grave.  Under  the  stately  walls,  amidst  the  hushed  ex- 
pectancy of  those  gathered  there,  she  passed,  the  heavy  doors 
closed,  and  a  great  silence  fell  on  the  waiting  multitude.  Al- 
most, it  seemed,  they  could  follow  the  scene  within — the  gor- 
geous assemblage,  the  unrobing  and  robing  again  of  the  girl 
queen,  the  strange  quaint  ceremonial,  the  taking  of  the  power 
into  those  small  hands,  the  sceptre  of  ruling,  the  orb  of 
strength,  the  cloak  of  majesty — on,  through  each  reverent 
event,  to  the  last  great  one,  the  placing  of  England's  crown 
on  the  youthful  head.  A  thrill  ran  through  the  assemblage, 
communicating  itself  to  those  outside.  And  the  bells  rang 


310  When  Pan  Pipes 

out — joyous,  happy  bells — telling  a  loyal  rejoicing  people  that 
their  queen  was  queen  indeed.  Guns  boomed,  horses  pranced 
and  clattered  on  the  stones,  all  the  bells  of  London  joined  in ; 
cheer  after  cheer  rang  from  throats  already  hoarse  with  cheer- 
ing, and  amid  the  noise  and  sound,  the  bustle  and  crowding, 
the  procession  started  once  more,  this  time  to  take  its  home- 
ward way  by  a  longer  route. 

The  crowd,  anxious  to  lose  nothing,  with  one  accord  broke, 
making  for  other  points  of  vantage.  Pressing,  surging,  it 
swept  on;  in  a  moment  Jerry  was  separated  from  his  friends, 
Reuben  and  Toby  being  carried  with  the  throng,  the  Jew 
wearing  a  comical  look  of  dismay.  Jerry  had  no  intention 
of  leaving  his  place  until  certain  that  every  chance  of  seeing 
the  beautiful  vision  again  was  gone.  In  the  rush  he  had  been 
carried  some  distance,  now,  turning,  he  elbowed  his  way  back. 
The  crowd,  meeting  him,  was  harder  to  fight;  it  took  all  his 
strength,  but  he  was  determined,  and,  step  by  step,  fought  his 
way.  Here  and  there  it  thinned,  and  he  took  breath,  and 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  first  position,  found  a  break  in  the 
packed  mass. 

Taking  the  opportunity,  he  turned  in,  the  crowd  drew  to- 
gether again,  there  was  a  halt  in  the  onward  rush.  Two 
or  three  rough-looking  men  caught  his  attention;  a  laugh, 
a  woman's  scream,  a  gleam  of  crimson  against  their  dull 
clothes,  made  him  catch  his  breath.  Suddenly,  remembrance 
brought  back  the  past,  the  crimson  breast,  the  cruel  hand. 
He  made  a  rush  forward,  struck  with  his  doubled  fist  the 
mouth  which  uttered  the  words,  hit  wildly  at  another,  and 
with  one  great  effort  caught  the  crimson  gleam  as  it  fell,  lift- 
ing it  in  his  arms  as  though  suddenly  endowed  with  super- 
human strength.  For  one  wild  rapturous  moment  he  clasped 
the  slight  form  to  his  heart,  wondering  if  its  loud  beating 
would  wake  the  unconscious  girl. 

Gathering  the  rich  cloak  round  her,  fighting,  pushing,  he 
gained  a  few  yards,  then  was  stopped  by  a  movement. 
Glancing  downwards,  he  looked  straight  into  the  blue  eyes, 


Castle  of  the  Black  Knight  811 

and  memory  brought  visions  of  cool  deep  pools  in  the  heart 
of  the  woods. 

"Don't  move,"  he  whispered.  "You're  safe — quite  safe; 
only  keep  still." 

She  obeyed,  but  he  felt  her  thrill  as  the  crowd  pressed 
close;  he  even  fancied  that  she  clung  nearer  to  him.  He 
knew  he  held  her  close,  sheltered  from  the  rude  press,  close 
to  his  heart,  and  life  held  no  more  for  him.  He  cried  in- 
wardly to  himself.  "This  is  life.  Whatever  happens,  I  have 
lived,  even  if  only  for  this  short  time."  Another  moment  and 
he  stood  free — the  crowd  swept  on;  Mary  Cloudesley  slipped 
from  his  arms,  and  stooping,  gathered  the  cloak  into  her  hand, 
apparently  searching  carefully  for  torn  places.  But  the  trem- 
bling hands  and  deeply  flushed  face  told  of  time  needed  to 
gain  her  composure.  In  a  moment  she  stood  up. 

"Sir,  how  can  I  thank  you;  another  minute,  and — "  she 
shivered  and  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes  as  though  to 
shut  out  a  possible  happening;  then,  "I  cannot  think  how 
it  came  about.  My  father  told  me  to  wait  a  moment,  the 
carriage  was  not  there,  and  somehow,  I  suppose,  I  moved, 
and  in  a  moment,  before  I  knew  where  I  was,  I  was  in  the 
crowd.  Some  man — "  the  sweet  voice  trembled,  a  hot  blush 
mantled  the  lovely  face.  Jerry  drew  near. 

"But  it's  all  right  now ;  you're  safe,  my  lady."  She  looked 
up  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  thanks  to  you,  sir.    But  how  did  you  know?" 

"My  lady,  I  come  from  Cloudesley." 

"From  Cloudesley!"  Ah,  how  the  beautiful  face  lighted 
up ;  she  clapped  her  little  gloved  hands.  "Oh,  how  charming. 
Come,  we  must  find  my  father,  and  he  shall  thank  you  him- 
self." She  gathered  her  flounced  skirts  round  her,  and  im- 
pulsively, as  a  child  might,  stretched  out  her  hand  and  took 
his. 

The  thrill  of  her  touch,  the  magic  of  her  voice,  carried 
Jerry  into  fairyland.  He  was  a  child  again;  clearly,  amidst 
the  din  and  clatter  of  bells  and  voices,  came  the  one  dear 


812  When  Pan  Pipes 

voice:  "Some  day,  Jerry  boy,  you'll  find  a  fairy,  I  hope; 
and  she'll  take  your  hand,  and  all  the  world  will  grow  golden 
— sorrow  and  care  will  melt  away,  and  you'll  feel  so  strong 
and  happy.  And  the  fairy  will  lead  you — "  The  words 
faded,  the  little  hand  slipped  from  his.  The  earl  stood  be- 
fore them  with  a  troubled,  anxious  face.  In  a  moment  she 
had  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  the  look  of  anxiety  changed 
to  one  of  sternness. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Mary?    And  who  is  this?" 

"Father,  dear  father,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  don't  know  a  bit 
how  it  happened,  only  I  found  myself  in  that  terrible  crowd, 
and  this  gentleman  saved  me  as  I  fell.  And,  father,  he  comes 
from  Cloudesley."  The  earl  turned,  his  face  inscrutable  un- 
der its  mask. 

"I  am  greatly  in  your  debt,  sir.  But  for  your  prompt  aid 
my  daughter  might  have  sustained  some  life-long  injury,  if 
not  worse.  You  come  from  Cloudesley?" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"And  your  name?  Pardon  me  for  inquiring.  Believe  me, 
it  is  not  from  mere  curiosity." 

"My  name  is  Dell,  my  lord — Jerry  Dell — and  I  was  brought 
up  by  Mrs.  Hagges."  The  earl  gazed  thoughtfully  at  him, 
then  his  brow  cleared. 

"I  remember.    Your  father  was  a  sculptor,  was  he  not?" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"And  you  are  following  in  his  footsteps?"  Jerry  inclined 
his  head.  The  earl  went  on : 

"I  should  like  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Dell,  in  a  more  leisurely 
way.  Would  it  be  troubling  you  if  I  asked  you  to  call  upon 
me  at  your  convenience  ?" 

Jerry  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"I  should  be  delighted,  my  lord,  at  any  time  which  will  suit 
you  best" 

"Then,  shall  we  say  to-morrow  morning?"  And  with  bated 
breath,  Jerry  agreed.  Two  chances  that  day  had  fallen  on 


Castle  of  the  Black  Knight  313 

his  path ;  another  was  hanging  in  the  veil  of  to-morrow.     Fate 
was  indeed  kind.     The  earl  bowed  gravely. 

"Then  I  shall  expect  you  in  the  morning.  Till  then,  good- 
day."  But  Mary  Cloudesley  put  out  her  little  hand. 
"Good-bye,  Mr.  Dell,  and  thank  you  very  much." 
Hat  in  hand  he  stood  by,  watching  her  step  into  the  stately 
carriage,  envying  the  footmen  who  lifted  her  train  and  cloak, 
who  might  see  and  hear  her  every  day,  and  catching  a  last 
glimpse  of  the  bonnie  blue  eyes,  the  sweet  radiant  smile. 
Then,  as  the  splendid  equipage  drove  away  and  was  lost  in 
the  medley  of  other  carriages,  he  turned  homewards,  wonder- 
ing at  the  beauty  of  the  day,  the  glory  of  the  skies  and  sum- 
mer sunshine,  wondering,  wondering,  till  wonderment  turned 
to  dreams  and  a  fairy  palace  began  to  build  itself,  airy,  ethereal, 
yet  with  a  solidity  lacking  hitherto.  And  he  knew  a  fairy  had 
laid  its  foundation  stone  and  christened  it  Love. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OF  THE  BUILDING  OF  A   CASTLE J  AND  HOW  THE  BROWNIE 
FAIRY  CAME   HOME 

CLOTHES!  Romance  fled,  even  the  radiance  of  waking 
to  a  day  of  days  paled  before  the  vision  of  himself  as  he 
appeared  to  himself.  Lying  awake  in  the  early  summer  morn- 
ing, everything  else  was  forgotten,  only  the  puzzle  remained — 
how  could  he  look  his  best  ?  True,  a  new  suit,  as  yet  unworn, 
lay  in  a  drawer,  and  he  rejoiced  in  a  ruffled  shirt  and  smart 
Malacca  cane ;  for,  be  it  whispered,  in  a  small  niche  of  Jerry's 
heart  stood  an  altar  reared  to  the  goddess  of  fashion;  very 
insignificant,  often  lost  sight  of,  but  nevertheless,  a  factor  in 
the  whole;  also,  inherited  perhaps,  was  a  love  of  cleanliness, 
freshness,  and  pleasant  surroundings ;  which  things,  subdued 
and  held  in  check,  soften  and  keep  from  coarseness  a  strong 
and  vigorous  character. 

He  rose  and  laid  out  the  various  garments ;  then  proceeded 
to  dress.  It  was  a  lengthy  business  and  a  distasteful  one. 
The  long  pier  glass  reflected  his  tall  figure,  broad  shoulders 
and  massive  chest,  and  he  longed  unspeakably  for  the  slender 
elegance,  the  graceful  carriage  of  Sir  Francis  Crewe.  He 
thought  of  Mary  Cloudesley  and  turned  cold  at  the  remem- 
brance of  having  held  her,  that  dainty,  fairy-like  form,  in  his 
strong  arms,  her  soft  draperies  contaminated  by  contact  with 
his  rough  clothes,  her  little  hand  in  his  stained,  gloveless  one. 
How  could  he  approach  her  again  ?  And  then  came  an  appall- 
ing thought — perhaps  he  might  not  see  her  to-day.  Out  went 
the  sun,  down  dropped  darkness  and  despair.  Then  hope 
pushed  her  head  up  again,  and  he  finished  his  dressing. 

He  gazed  in  a  dissatisfied  way  at  the  dark  blue  cloth  coat, 

314 


The  Building  of  a  Castle  315 

the  gilt  buttons,  polished  till  they  caught  every  gleam  of  light, 
the  close  fitting  breeches,  the  broad  expanse  of  white  waist- 
coat. Suddenly  struck  by  an  idea,  he  opened  a  drawer  and 
drew  out  the  soft  gold  fob  chain  and  the  great  topaz  seal. 
As  he  slipped  the  catch  on  to  his  cheap  silver  watch,  a  little 
pang  of  compunction  seized  him.  He  had  been  in  London 
nearly  three  years  and  was  no  nearer  finding  its  owner  than 
when  he  came.  At  first  he  had  waited  for  more  knowledge 
of  London;  then,  after  making  fruitless  inquiries,  he  had  told 
Reuben  the  story.  As  usual,  the  Jew  made  it  his  business, 
but  up  to  now  no  information  had  been  forthcoming,  and  for 
the  last  few  weeks  Toby's  trouble  had  put  everything  else 
from  his  mind.  In  a  way  he  felt  that  the  ornament  was  not 
his  own,  but  the  temptation  was  too  much. 

"I'll  borrow  it  just  for  the  day,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
with  a  last  glance  went  downstairs,  somewhat  shamefaced, 
as  he  thought  of  the  Jew's  kindly  quizzical  face  and  Toby's 
sorrowful  one.  Toby  was  already  down.  On  this  great  day 
Jerry  was  forbidden  to  assist,  and  his  thin  face  lit  up  as  he 
met  his  friend. 

"Jerry,  you  do  look  grand;  quite  the  gentleman."  Jerry 
blushed  hotly. 

"Do  I,  Toby?  Do  I  really?  Look  well,  and  tell  me  if  I 
am  all  right."  Toby  put  down  a  dish,  and  turning,  looked 
him  up  and  down  approvingly.  Then  suddenly  the  thin  cheeks 
flushed  and  paled;  a  look  of  terror,  of  anguish — which  was 
it?— came  into  the  tired  eyes,  and  with  a  stifled  cry  he  stepped 
forward,  grasping  the  seal  with  nervous,  trembling  fingers. 

"Jerry,  Jerry,  where  did  you  get  it?  How — who — gave  it 
to  you?  Or  did  you  buy  it?" 

"No."  Jerry's  voice  was  puzzled;  was  it  part  of  Toby's 
mystery?  "It  was  given  me  in  trust  for  one  to  whom  it 
belongs.  His  mother — "  He  broke  off,  for  Toby  had  sunk 
into  a  chair,  and  leaning  his  arms  upon  a  table,  dropped  his 
head  upon  them,  and  was  moaning  bitterly. 

"Toby — what  is  it?"    He  put  his  arm  round  the  heaving 


316  When  Pan  Pipes 

shoulders.  "Toby,  tell  me."  The  moaning  stopped;  Toby 
lifted  his  head. 

"Jerry — I  must — I  can't  keep  it  any  longer — and  I  can  trust 
you.  Don't  speak  of  it,  don't  tell  Reuben.  The  seal  is  mine, 
I'm  Toby  Plumtre — Tobias,  after  my  father.  Oh,  my  dear, 
dear  father.  Jerry,  I  killed  him,  as  surely  as  though  I  had 
used  a  dagger  or  poison,  with  my  bad  ways."  Again  the  head 
dropped — the  moaning  changed  to  great  sobs.  "My  mother, 
oh,  Jerry,  my  mother."  Jerry  was  silent;  such  grief  as  this 
must  have  its  own  way.  The  heavy  sobs  ceased  at  last.  Once 
more  Toby  lifted  his  poor  white  face — so  pinched  and  worn. 

"Jerry,  you  won't  say  I  told  you.  You'll  let  everything  be 
the  same.  Don't  speak  of  it,  even  to  me." 

"N-no,"  then  hastily,  "No,  no,  of  course  not.  But,  Toby," 
his  voice  grew  graver,  "why  don't  you  go  home  ?  She's  long- 
ing for  you.  If  you  only  knew  how  she  wants  you." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  was  the  quick  answer.  "But  not  yet — 
not  yet.  Jerry — "  he  was  standing  close ;  he  spoke  in  a  whis- 
per, with  furtive  glances  round.  "Some  day,  soon  now,  oh, 
I  hope  soon,  I  shall  go  back.  Pray  God,  she  may  still  be  there, 
and  then,  ah,  my  God,"  the  whisper,  though  so  low,  seemed 
to  ring  through  the  hall,  "freedom,  happiness,  and — love  and 
life  for  her.  Will  it  ever  come?  Jerry,  I  count  the  hours, 
the  minutes  almost."  He  rose  quickly  with  a  warning  "hush." 
Reuben's  footsteps  sounded  in  the  gallery  above.  "Wear  it, 
Jerry,  please,  dear  old  fellow.  And  don't  forget,  secrecy!" 
He  seized  his  hand,  wrung  it,  and  vanished  into  back  regions. 

The  Jew  came  down  the  broad  stairs,  caught  Jerry  by  the 
shoulder,  and  turned  him  towards  the  great  window,  smiling 
broadly. 

"Ach,  mein  yongling,  goest  thou  courting?" 

The  hot  flush  rose  on  Jerry's  face.  He  pulled  himself  away, 
almost  angrily.  Reuben  laughed  and  nodded  as  he  prepared 
the  coffee;  smiling  again,  half  sadly,  at  the  untasted  break- 
fast, the  constant  glance  at  the  clock,  but  took  no  further 
notice.  It  is  at  these  great  moments  of  youth  that  every- 


The  Building  of  a  Castle  317 

day  details  assume  importance.  Jerry's  mind  was  running 
on  the  question,  "Should  he  take  a  hackney  coach,  or  should 
he  not?"  The  Jew,  watching  quietly,  read  his  thoughts. 

"Why  should  you  ride,  mein  yongling?  With  strong  young 
legs,  and  a  fine  morning,  and  time.  Nein,  nein,  it  is  but  pride 
to  take  a  coach."  So,  in  the  glory  of  sunshine,  new  clothes, 
with  wildly  beating  heart,  and  a  sick  feeling  of  despair,  a 
certainty  of  appearing  country  bred,  and  much  internal  trem- 
bling, Jerry  set  off.  The  two  faces  watched  him  cross  the 
square,  then  turned  in,  Toby  with  a  deep  sigh,  the  Jew  smiling, 
yet  wearing  an  expression  of  sadness. 

"So  they  try  their  wings,  these  young  ones,  and  they  know 
their  strength,  and  so  they  fly  away.  But  for  the  old  comes 
loneliness.  Ach,  well,  it  is  life." 

The  earl's  town  house  was  at  Chelsea;  a  long  walk,  and 
Jerry  found  himself  amid  fields  and  country  surroundings 
before  he  reached  his  destination.  Strangely  enough,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  the  front  entrance  might  be  intended  for 
greater  visitors  than  himself.  Although  conscious  of  shabbi- 
ness,  of  country  breeding,  never  had  the  idea  of  inferiority 
entered  his  head.  Well  attired,  and  with  a  full  knowledge 
of  social  ways,  he  would  have  held  his  own  with  all  the  world. 
The  earl  received  him  in  a  library,  dark  panelled,  book  lined, 
and  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"For  myself,  Mr.  Dell,  and  in  my  daughter's  name,  I  must 
again  thank  you  for  your  prompt  action  yesterday.  But  I 
did  not  ask  you  to  come  here  to  listen  to  a  few  empty  words. 
My  sister  has  spoken  of  you,  and  although  at  the  time,  not 
having  the  pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance,"  he  bowed 
graciously,  "I  paid  little  attention,  yet  it  comes  back  to  me 
that  she  has  the  highest  possjble  opinion  of  your  abilities." 
It  was  Jerry's  turn  to  bow.  "Moreover,  she  believes  that  you 
will  carve  for  yourself  a  name  in  the  annals  of  fame.  Whether 
that  be  so  or  no,"  he  waved  his  hand  smilingly,  "I  cannot  say, 
but  if  you  will  undertake  a  commission  from  me,  I  will  take 
my  chance  of  future  fame." 


318  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  shall  be  pleased  to  do  all  I  can,  my  lord,"  answered 
Jerry,  colouring  with  pleasure. 

The  earl  shifted  in  his  seat,  paused  thoughtfully,  as  though 
choosing  his  words,  and  went  on: 

"You  may  not  be  aware,  Mr.  Dell,  although,  no  doubt,  all 
Cloudesley  knows  it,  that  my  daughter  is  destined  for  the 
Church."  Jerry  looked  up,  hardly  grasping  the  import. 

"For  the  Church  ?"  he  repeated.    The  earl's  face  grew  stern. 

"I  repeat — for  the  Church.  She  enters  the  Convent  of 
St.  Monica  after  Christmas.  It  is  natural  that  I  should  wish 
for  some  memento,  some — some — "  he  broke  off  abruptly, 
then  changed  the  sentence.  "I  should  be  glad,  Mr.  Dell,  if 
you  will  undertake  the  work,  a  bust,  life  size,  to  be  executed 
in  marble.  I  will  pay  you  well,  for  it  is  a  difficult  under- 
taking for  one  so  young;  also  it  must  be  put  in  hand  at 
once.  There  is  not  too  much  time,"  he  added  slowly,  as  though 
to  himself.  "What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Dell?"  Jerry's  heart 
seemed  to  stand  still.  He  stammered  out  something,  but  the 
earl  understood,  and  smiled  in  a  gratified  way. 

"I  know,  I  know.  It  is  a  great  thing.  Lady  Mary  Cloudes- 
ley— if  good,  enough  to  make  a  man's  name.  But — "  he  rose 
as  though  to  terminate  the  interview,  "I  am  deeply  in  your 
debt,  and  it  has  always  been  my  custom  to  pay  off  all  my  obli- 
gations. You  accept,  I  think?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  most  gratefully." 

''Then  you  must  arrange  for  sittings  and  so  forth  with 
my  daughter's  governess.  I  will  send  her  to  you  at  once. 
Good-day  to  you,  Mr.  Dell." 

In  a  whirl  of  excitement  Jerry  received  his  commands. 
The  next  morning,  and  again  in  three  days,  and  afterwards 
as  he  pleased.  The  governess,  an  elderly  lady  of  good  birth, 
departed,  singing  the  praises  of  the  handsome  young  artist 
to  her  charge,  little  dreaming  of  the  fluttering  heart  under  the 
demure  exterior,  the  remembrance  of  the  strong  arms  which 
had  held  her,  of  two  anxious  brown  eyes  which  had  gazed 
into  hers. 


The  Building  of  a  Castle  319 

The  happiness  of  new  born  love  is  not  happiness,  rather 
it  is  torture,  agony,  with  occasional  glimpses  of  a  paradise 
beyond  earthly  conception.  Added  to  this  was  the  terrible 
fact  that  in  a  few  short  months  the  dark  gates  of  the  con- 
vent would  swallow  her  up  for  ever.  And  Jerry,  tossing, 
turning  on  his  bed,  listening  for  Toby's  restless  footsteps, 
would  think  and  think,  plan  and  plan,  till  his  head  whirled, 
and  he  came  back  to  first  facts.  He,  a  poor  man,  of  no 
family,  with  a  future  to  make,  was  no  mate  for  an  earl's 
daughter,  whether  in  a  convent  or  out  of  it.  Conscience  bade 
him  thrust  away  the  beautiful  dream,  bade  him  pray  for 
strength  to  fight  the  long  lonely  years,  for  honour  to  bury  his 
love  deep  in  his  heart,  and  for  work — grinding,  toilsome  work 
— to  keep  him  from  thinking,  from  utter  despair,  from  some- 
thing worse. 

Ah,  those  were  days  of  unspeakable  misery,  and  yet  he 
would  not  have  been  without  them.  The  hours  he  spent  in 
her  dear  presence,  listening  to  the  clear  young  voice,  watch- 
ing the  beautiful  face ;  those  unforgettable  hours,  each  minute 
stamped  deep  in  his  memory.  Sometimes  he  fancied  the  blue 
eyes  lifted  themselves  to  his  with  a  look  of  more  than  passing 
interest.  But  he  told  himself  that  it  was  indeed  fancy.  There 
were  times  of  rest  for  both  sitter  and  artist.  Then  the  talk 
would  turn  on  Cloudesley  and  Betty. 

"I'm  afraid  she  finds  her  life  dull,"  said  Mary,  thought- 
fully puckering  her  white  forehead.  "She's  so  fond  of  ex- 
citement and  gaiety.  And  lately  her  letters  have  seemed  almost 
sad.  Not  that  I  get  many,"  she  laughed  gaily,  "Betty  was 
always  a  bad  correspondent." 

In  the  hot  summer  mornings  the  governess  dozed  quietly; 
they  were  practically  alone.  Outside,  green  lawns  and  gaudy 
flower  beds  stretched  away  under  steel  blue  skies,  giving  the 
shady  cool  room  a  dreamlike  quality.  So  silent,  so  still  was 
everything,  that  in  spite  of  their  owners'  attempts  at  repres- 
sion, their  own  hearts  told  each  other  tales,  and  though  they 
spoke  not,  utterance  found  itself  in  other  ways. 


320  When  Pan  Pipes 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  whispered  the  buzzing  bee  to  the 
roses  in  the  great  bow  pots  which  stood  everywhere. 

"Do  you  love  me,  do  you  love  me?"  sang  the  vine  leaves 
on  the  house  to  the  gentle  summer  breeze.  And  all  the  long 
hot  days,  all  the  stilly  starlit  nights,  flowers,  birds,  insects,  uni- 
versal nature  murmured  their  song — "I  love  you — I  love  you — 
for  ever — for  ever." 

So  the  days  passed.  The  work  grew.  Never  before  had 
Jerry  done  so  well;  and  he  knew  it,  as  a  true  artist  knows 
the  quality  of  his  own  handiwork.  The  earl,  too,  realised  that 
he  had  found,  if  not  a  genius,  at  least  an  artist.  He  would 
come  in  occasionally,  speak  a  few  courteous  words  of  praise, 
or  point  out  a  desired  alteration.  Sometimes,  too,  when  the 
room  was  empty,  when  night  had  fallen,  he  would  lock  the 
door,  and  lifting  the  damp  cloths  from  the  clay  model,  stand 
gazing,  gazing,  as  he  never  gazed  at  the  original.  Then  care- 
fully covering  it  up,  he  would  go  to  his  lonely  room,  sighing 
as  he  paused  outside  his  daughter's  chamber,  sometimes  even 
gently  opening  the  door  to  look  for  one  moment  on  the  fair 
sleeping  face  on  its  lace  pillow. 

July  passed.  London  emptied  itself,  and  sank  into  a  sullen 
sleep.  My  lord  took  his  daughter  to  a  fashionable  watering- 
place.  The  heat  of  the  last  few  weeks  had  told  upon  her,  so 
the  physicians  said,  and  she  drooped  like  a  flower,  losing  in- 
terest in  everything.  When  they  returned  in  September  the 
sittings  would  be  resumed. 

To  say  "Good-bye  till  we  meet  again"  was  anguish,  to  keep 
from  showing  it,  torture.  What  the  real  good-bye — good-bye 
for  ever — would  be,  neither  dared  think.  They  shook  hands 
calmly — the  thrill  of  contact  making  both  hearts  beat  as  one — 
a  few  conventional  words,  and  it  was  over.  Then,  with  a 
murmured  word  to  her  governess,  Mary  fled  to  her  room, 
locked  the  door,  and  flinging  herself  on  her  bed,  buried  her 
burning  face  in  the  soft  cool  pillows.  For  knowledge  had 
come  to  her,  knowledge  of  a  world  beyond  the  convent  walls ; 
of  bliss  beyond  the  bliss  of  religion,  of  love,  of  longing,  and 


The  Building  of  a  Castle  321 

tender  joy.  Oh,  but  the  days  were  long — long,  and  sad  and 
weary.  Morning  broke  after  hot  restless  nights,  with  the 
thought  of  another  day  to  be  lived  through,  and  evening  fell, 
bringing  the  meeting  a  day  nearer. 

And  the  deep,  dark  shadow  over  the  old  house  in  the  square 
grew  deeper  and  darker.  But  in  the  third  week  the  cloud 
rolled  up  a  corner  for  Jerry,  showing  the  golden  radiance  be- 
hind, and  Pan's  melancholy  piping  changed  to  a  happier  key. 

"She  is  coming  back — coming  back — "  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  woke  each  morning.  "Another  night  gone — another  day 
nearer."  Time,  that  strange  variable  thing,  which  mocks  at 
happiness,  and  lingers  long  with  sorrow,  laughed  and  passed 
on.  The  last  day  of  weary  waiting  came,  as  all  things  come. 

Lingering  round  the  house  at  Chelsea,  as  long  ago  he  had 
lurked  in  fields  and  meadows  for  a  glimpse  of  the  wonderful 
being  described  by  Betty,  he  had  caught  hints  of  preparation. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  by  many.  Most  days  or  nights 
had  found  him  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  her  home. 
That  afternoon  he  returned  unspeakably  happy,  wondering  if 
the  moment  would  ever  come  when  he  would  see  her  again, 
turning  icy  cold  with  the  thought  of  what  possible  dangers 
might  assail  her  between  this  and  then. 

Slowly,  so  slowly,  the  clock  in  the  hall  ticked  off  its  minutes. 
Slowly  the  burning  sunshine  through  the  great  window  turned 
rosy  red,  fading  to  twilight.  Slowly  darkness,  the  soft  vel- 
vety darkness  of  an  August  night,  fell.  The  Jew  lit  candles, 
Toby  brought  supper,  cleared  it  away,  and  as  usual  the  three 
men  sat  round  the  table  smoking.  It  was  many  a  long  day 
since  Toby  had  helped  much  in  the  way  of  conversation,  and 
Jerry  of  late  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts.  Reuben 
gazed  doubtfully  from  one  to  the  other,  sighed  a  little,  and  at 
last  relapsed  into  silence. 

The  clouds  of  smoke  curled  upwards,  floating  airily  away 
to  the  dim  dome.  Toby  reached  across  and  snuffed  the  can- 
dles. Far  off,  over  the  quiet  streets,  through  open  windows, 
came  the  hum  of  London  by  night,  gay,  light-hearted.  Then, 


322  When  Pan  Pipes 

on  the  pavement  of  the  square,  the  sound  of  a  woman's  foot- 
steps fell,  timid,  hesitating,  dragging  as  though  very  tired,  and 
so  soft  that  they  were  only  perceptible  because  of  the  stillness 
around.  A  minute  later  the  great  knocker  of  the  door  was 
lifted  gently.  Toby  half  started  from  his  chair,  then  sat  back, 
his  face  ashen  white.  The  Jew,  with  a  quick  glance,  rose  and 
stepped  quietly  across  the  hall,  and  round  the  corner  towards 
the  door.  Jerry  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"There's  nothing  to  fear,  Toby;  it's  someone  for  Reuben, 
no  doubt."  The  heavy  bars  fell,  the  door  was  opened,  and 
a  woman's  low  voice  mingled  with  Reuben's  guttural  tones. 

"Kom  in,  kom  in,"  they  heard  him  say,  and  Toby's  face 
grew  calm. 

"Jerry,  mein  yongling,  here  is  someone  who  would  see  you." 

"See  me?"  cried  Jerry,  his  face  crimson,  for  every  thought 
was  of  her,  the  smallest  event  connected  itself  with  her.  He 
rose  and  went  towards  the  end  of  the  hall,  passing  Reuben 
returning  with  a  smiling  face.  In  the  half  darkness  he  could 
only  distinguish  a  small  form  standing  close  against  the  door- 
way, a  timid,  shrinking  figure,  which  advanced  fearfully.  So 
small  was  it,  so  bent,  and  the  face  it  lifted  to  his  under  the 
great  bonnet  was  worn  and  old,  though  not  with  age,  only 
bitter  experience.  Yet  in  it  was  a  look  which  flooded  his 
mind  with  remembrance.  Nearer  it  came,  then  lifting  two 
hands  from  beneath  the  shawl,  laid  them  upon  his  arm. 

"Master  Jerry,  oh,  Master  Jerry,  don't  you  know  me  ?  Have 
you  forgotten  Margery?" 

"Margery,"  he  echoed,  gazing  earnestly  into  the  dim  blue 
eyes.  "Margery — "  then  suddenly,  with  a  catching  sob,  he 
drew  her  to  him.  "Margery,  Margery,  dear,  dear  Margie. 
You've  come  at  last — after  all  these  years." 

He  could  feel  the  tiny  figure  shrink  and  flutter  as  he  held 
her,  but  the  voice  was  quiet  and  even. 

"Yes,  Master  Jerry,  I've  come  at  last.  Oh,  sir,"  with  a 
pitiful  note  of  entreaty,  "you'll  take  care  of  me,  won't  you?" 

"Take  care  of  you,  Margie,"  he  cried  fondly;  "why,  I'll 


The  Building  of  a  Castle  323 

never  let  you  go  again,  not  if  you  want  to  ever  so  badly." 
For  answer  she  slipped  quietly  from  his  arms,  staggered,  and 
would  have  fallen  but  that  he  caught  her. 

"It's  nothing,  Master  Jerry,  only  I'm  very  tired,  an' — if — 
you'd  give  me — a  drop  of — milk."  He  lifted  her  in  his  strong 
arms,  the  tired  eyes  closed,  the  light  weight  grew  dead. 

Reuben  came  to  meet  him,  and  together  they  laid  her  on 
a  couch.  With  gentle,  almost  womanly  touch,  the  Jew  drew 
off  the  big  heavy  bonnet,  loosened  the  shawl,  and  adminis- 
tered a  stimulant.  Presently  she  opened  her  eyes  and  would 
have  risen. 

"Not  yet — not  yet."  He  put  her  gently  back,  then  busied 
himself  with  the  preparation  of  hot  milk.  Jerry  and  Toby, 
the  work  taken  for  once  out  of  their  hands,  could  only  look 
on.  Presently  he  returned,  and  waving  the  two  aside,  pro- 
ceeded to  feed  her  slowly.  There  was  a  strange  moisture  in 
the  kind  eyes  as  he  watched  every  spoonful  almost  greedily 
swallowed. 

"Poor  thing — poor  thing — "  he  murmured.  "But  you  must 
go  slow — slow.  We  will  now  wait  a  time."  There  was  a 
trace  of  colour  in  the  grey  face.  She  lifted  herself. 

"Master  Jerry,  I'm  better  now.  I'll  sit  up."  Once  more 
the  Jew  bustled  round;  the  easy  chair,  cushioned  and  low, 
was  brought  near,  a  high  hassock  placed,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
she  was  gazing  at  them  with  a  perplexed  air,  yet  too  tired 
to  ask  questions. 

"You  won't  mind,  Mr.  Gade,  if  she  has  my  room,  will 
you?"  whispered  Jerry,  drawing  the  Jew  on  one  side.  Reu- 
ben glared  ferociously. 

"She  will  not  haf  your  room,  nein — it  is  small  and  poor, 
and  smells  of  paint.  She  will  haf  the  best  room  in  the  house, 
and  Toby  has  prepared  it  He  knows  my  ways — he  is  a  good 
boy." 

No  argument  could  turn  him;  the  great  bedroom  looking 
over  the  square  was  made  ready  and  Margery  taken  to  it. 
Jerry,  going  in  later,  found  her  sleeping  quietly,  the  light, 


324  When  Pan  Pipes 

soft  sleep  which  comes  with  middle  age;  yet,  even  as  he 
watched,  she  roused  and  moaned,  then  broke  into  a  pitiful  cry. 
He  soothed  her  to  rest  again,  but  many  times  that  night  he 
crept  in,  and  each  time  the  wailing  cry  repeated  itself. 

It  was  not  until  the  summer  dawn  broke  that  the  house  set- 
tled to  sleep;  even  Toby,  forgetful  of  his  own  troubles,  was 
awake,  waiting  for  Jerry's  reports.  Down  below  the  Jew 
smoked  and  listened,  thoughtfully  musing  and  gazing  at  the 
shawl  and  bonnet  thrown  on  a  chair.  Now  and  then  he  would 
touch  them  gently,  as  though  to  assure  himself  of  their  reality. 

"Strange,"  he  murmured,  "that  so  small  a  thing  should  mean 
so  much.  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  know  that  a  woman  is  in 
the  house.  Ach — "  he  sighed  deeply,  "she  has  seen  trouble, 
oh,  moch  trouble — poor  thing — poor  thing." 

But  the  tiny  frail  form  had  wonderful  recuperative  powers. 
Toby,  brush  in  hand,  was  startled  next  morning  by  a  strange 
light  footstep  on  the  stair.  She  was  coming  down,  slowly, 
to  be  sure,  but  with  a  firmer  tread,  and  a  fixed  determination 
to  do  something  in  return  for  bed  and  lodging.  In  vain  he 
entreated,  commanded,  even  threatened;  without  a  word,  she 
took  the  brush  from  him  and  went  to  work.  Jerry,  fetched 
in  desperation,  could  do  no  more,  and  at  last  they  realised 
that  it  was  a  new-born  happiness,  a  bringing  back  of  old  times. 
When  the  Jew  began  his  usual  task  of  coffee  making,  she 
quietly  took  the  utensils  from  him,  continuing  the  job  in  a 
business-like  way,  which  caused  him  to  lift  his  hands  in  admi- 
ration. 

But  when  it  was  finished,  she  allowed  him  to  put  her  into 
the  armchair,  to  see  that  she  had  the  daintiest  pieces,  the  best 
of  everything.  Never  was  such  coffee.  Reuben  went  into 
ecstasies  and  demanded  a  third  cup. 

"I  haf  not  tasted  such  coffee,"  he  cried,  "no — not  since  my 
French  mothair  made  it — twenty — thirty — years  ago — when  we 
were  yong — myself  and  my  brothers — and  now,  they  are  gone 
—all  gone." 


The  Building  of  a  Castle  325 

"It  was  a  Frenchwoman  taught  me,"  said  Margery  timidly. 

"Ha — said  I  not  so,"  cried  Reuben  triumphantly.  "Well, 
madame,  we  cannot  let  you  go  while  you  make  such  coffee; 
you  will  stay,  will  you  not,  and  be  our  Hebe  ?" 

Toby  met  Jerry's  glance  across  the  table;  some  of  his  care 
had  fallen  from  him,  and  there  was  laughter  in  his  eyes. 

For  Jerry,  that  day  was  but  a  continuation  of  nightly 
dreams ;  the  shaded,  flower-scented  room,  outside,  as  it  seemed 
to  him  it  must  always  be,  green  lawns,  and  blazing  colour  un- 
der the  burning  sun  of  late  summer.  Mary  welcomed  him 
warmly,  putting  her  little  hand  in  his,  and  lifting  sweetest 
eyes,  dropped  them  with  a  flush  and  a  momentary  trembling, 
for  in  that  swift  glance  each  knew  again  the  other's  secret. 
He  lingered,  prolonging  his  work  till  the  governess  grew  im- 
patient, and  he  must  go. 

A  new  atmosphere  greeted  him  as  he  entered  the  hall,  a 
queer  indefinable  sense  of  something  there  which  had  hitherto 
been  missing;  Margery  bustling  round  laying  the  cloth  for 
dinner,  having  stolen  a  march  on  Toby,  accounted  for  it,  and 
Reuben  put  it  into  words,  nodding  delightedly  at  her  as  Jerry 
entered. 

"Ach,  mein  yongling,  it  is  good,  is  it  not,  to  see  a  woman, 
to  hear  her  voice,  and  to  listen  to  the  swish-swish  as  she 
moves?" 

Without  asking,  ignoring  all  three  men,  she  took  the  reins 
into  her  own  hands.  Yet  Jerry  seemed  to  know  instinctively 
that  the  old  Margery  was  gone.  His  recollections  were  of 
cheerfulness,  laughter,  endearing  words,  but  this  quiet,  silent 
woman  was  no  link  with  the  past.  Her  face,  grave  and 
inscrutable,  hardly  altered  its  expression ;  no  smile  flitted  across 
it.  Again  the  Jew  supplied  the  solution.  He  watched  her 
carry  out  the  dishes  with  a  pitying,  troubled  look ;  then  turned 
to  Jerry. 

"There  is  trouble  there.  Ach,  Gott,  she  has  seen  trouble." 
Then  solemnly,  "Mein  yongling,  pray  the  good  Gott  that  you 


826  When  Pan  Pipes 

may  not  see  such  trouble."  He  paused  thoughtfully,  then 
fetching  out  the  usual  after-dinner  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  after 
a  few  puffs,  went  on. 

"She  has  lived  with  Indians." 

"Indians!"    Jerry  started.    Reuben  nodded  vehemently. 

"Yes,  with  Indians,  and  she  has  caught  that  grave,  im- 
movable expression  which  is  a  mask  for  everything,  for  all 
the  emotions.  She  will  lose  it  one  day,  and  then  she  will  be 
a  different  woman.  But — "  he  laid  his  hand  on  Jerry's,  "we 
must  not  trouble  her,  nor  ask  questions.  She  will  tell  us  all 
in  her  own  time." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JERRY  AND  THE  BEOWNIE  FAIRY  START  ON  A  QUEST 

MARGERY  took  time  for  telling  her  tale.  At  the  end  of 
two  days  they  knew  no  more  than  when  she  arrived. 
Jerry  asked  her  how  she  had  found  him,  and  she  replied  that 
she  had  Messrs.  Gardiner's  address  and  had  gone  to  them. 
But  she  vouchsafed  nothing  more,  and  they  asked  no  other 
questions. 

On  the  third  evening,  however,  she  went  to  Jerry's  room. 
He  was  sitting  by  the  window,  ostensibly  reading,  in  reality 
building  that  wonderful  dream  castle,  which  now  grew  stead- 
ily. It  only  wanted  a  certain  thing  called  life — or  as  some 
people  term  it,  reality — to  become  the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
Heaven  or  earth. 

Toby  was  out  on  one  of  his  mysterious  errands,  and  Jerry's 
dreams  were  tinged  with  blackness.  Although  more  often 
than  not  he  went  on  his  own  account,  yet  there  were  times 
when  the  stealthy  knock  came  at  the  door  beneath  the  golden 
balls.  Jerry  was  growing  used  to  the  veiled  woman,  the  lurk- 
ing shadow  behind  her.  To-night,  however,  they  were  not 
present.  Margery  stood  by  his  side,  a  little  frail  figure,  trem- 
bling just  now  with  something  like  excitement. 

"Sit  down,  Margery,"  he  cried,  jumping  up  and  putting  her 
into  his  chair.  She  shook  her  head. 

"Sir,  I'll  stand ;  I  can  tell  it  better  when  I'm  standing.  Mas- 
ter Jerry,"  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  speaking  almost 
eagerly,  "have  you  plenty  of  money?"  He  smiled  fondly  down 
at  her. 

"Yes,  Margery,  plenty.  There's  all  that  was  left  to  me,  you 
know,  besides  my  dear  father's." 

"Yes."  She  stood  thinking,  yet  her  face  betrayed  no  secret. 

327 


328  When  Pan  Pipes 

Presently  she  looked  up.  "Master  Jerry,  I  want  you  to  take 
me  on  a  journey,  a  long  journey,  a  journey  of  several  days. 
It  will  cost  money,  but  you  will  be  glad  you've  spent  it.  Will 
you?"  He  wondered  what  lay  behind  those  dim  eyes;  clear- 
headedness, he  was  sure;  there  was  no  sign  that  trouble  had 
touched  her  mind. 

"Where  is  it,  Margery?"  he  asked.     She  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir ;  you  must  trust  me.  Oh,  Master  Jerry, 
you'll  be  glad,  you'll  thank  me.  I'll  not  ask  you  anything  more ; 
just  this  one  thing."  At  any  other  time  he  would  have  con- 
sented without  hesitation.  But  now,  to  leave  London,  the  sit- 
tings— Mary.  It  was  as  though  Margery  was  cutting  his  heart 
strings.  She  stood  silent;  only  by  the  trembling  fingers,  the 
fluttering  heart-beats,  could  he  know  what  the  answer  meant 
to  her.  That  something  of  importance  hung  on  it  was  obvious ; 
what,  he  could  not  guess,  unless  it  was  to  renew  her  relations 
with  her  family.  He.  remembered  they  lived  in  Scotland,  she 
had  told  him  when  he  was  quite  small ;  yes,  that  must  be  it. 

He  weighed  matters;  another  three  sittings,  four  at  the 
outside,  and  the  dream  would  be  over.  Suppose  he  took  a 
fortnight,  that  would  prolong  it.  Suddenly  his  mind  was  made 
up. 

"Yes,  Margery,  I'll  go."  She  lifted  her  hands  from  his 
arm  with  an  almost  inaudible  sigh  of  relief.  "But — "  he 
laughed  down  at  her,  "who'll  do  the  business  if  I'm  not  to 
know  anything?  There'll  be  seats  to  be  taken,  rooms  at  inns, 
and  so  on." 

"I  know,  Master  Jerry,"  she  answered  evasively;  "but  I've 
travelled  much  lately,  and  if  you'll  give  me  the  money,  I'll 
see  to  it  all;  and — and — "  there  was  just  a  touch  of  expression 
in  her  face,  "if  I  want  any  help,  Reuben'll  give  it." 

"Very  well.  But,  Margie,  I  can't  start  yet,  not  for  a  week 
or  so ;  will  that  do  ?" 

"The  sooner  the  better,  sir;  you  see,  there's  my  keep.  I 
can't  be  taking  up  the  best  bedroom  and  having  all  I  have  with- 
out paying,  and  I've  got  no  money." 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  329 

"That's  all  right,  Margie,"  he  put  his  arm  round  her  as 
though  to  shield  her,  "I'll  settle  with  Reuben."  But  he  reck- 
oned without  his  host.  Never  had  he  seen  the  Jew  in  such  a 
passion  as  when  he  suggested  payment. 

"Pay — pay!  You  would  insult  me  with  your  dirty  gold. 
Ach,  you  can  go — go  to  hell  with  your  Margery,  but  do  not 
offer  me  money  for  happiness."  He  sat  down  heavily,  ex- 
hausted with  the  violent  outbreak.  Jerry  would  have  expostu- 
lated, but  he  waved  him  aside. 

"You  can  go,  yes,  you  can  go,  but  never  kom  here  again. 
And  for  me,"  the  words  trembled,  he  rested  his  head  on  a 
shaking  hand,  "I  shall  be  once  more  lonely — lonely ;  and  more 
— I  shall  be  broken-hearted.  Ach,  mein  yongling,"  he  rose 
and  stood  by  Jerry,  "I  am  old  and  hot-tempered ;  but  stay  with 
me,  you  and  she ;  for  it  is  no  longer  a  house  for  shelter — it  is 
a  home  with  a  good  woman  in  it." 

Nothing  more  was  said;  even  Toby  dared  not  suggest  a 
bead  in  the  jar  of  good  deeds,  and  Margery  stayed,  making 
secret  arrangements. 

The  dark  hanging  cloud  over  the  hall  lightened  a  little; 
even  Toby's  song  was  heard  occasionally.  Was  it  passing 
for  good?  But  the  great  cloud  of  trouble  is  always  there; 
it  moves,  rolling  on  to  another  place,  and  as  it  lifted  from 
the  old  house  in  the  square  it  gathered  black  and  lowering 
over  little  Cloudesley,  over  the  inn,  over  its  inmates,  blackest 
of  all,  even  dropping  its  dark  bitterness  into  her  heart,  over 
Betty — the  passionate  little  heart,  which  loved  and  hated,  and 
wanted  things  so  badly. 

Night  after  night  she  lay  awake,  sobbing  for  that  which 
she  had  lost,  had  cast  away  in  her  childish  petulance ;  or  star- 
ing, dry-eyed,  at  the  two  friendly  faces  looking  in  upon  her. 

"Oh,  Moon,  Moon,"  she  cried,  "did  you  ever  see  sorrow 
like  mine?  Was  ever  such  unhappiness ?"  Church  Clock, 
listening,  smiled  into  the  other  smiling  face.  "It'll  pass,  it'll 
pass,"  he  whispered,  adding  gravely,  "if  she  has  strength  to 
resist  We  cannot  help  her;  life  must  fight  its  own  battles." 


330  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Ah,  Church  Clock,  she  is  so  young,  and  knows  nothing 
of  real  sorrow."  And  the  two  faces  watched  sadly,  pityingly. 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  lonely;  none  to  help  her.  Jerry 
gone;  Mary  so  far  off;  and  Paul — Betty's  tears  broke  out 
afresh  when  she  thought  of  him,  only  to  be  dashed  aside  in 
angry  pride.  To  turn  to  Francis  Crewe  was  but  natural. 
His  visits  were  frequent;  ostensibly  for  fishing  or  sketching, 
in  reality  to  develop  his  plans.  Soft  flattery,  tender  words, 
courteous  deference  did  their  work ;  the  honeyed,  venomous 
words  dropped  in,  assisted.  "Paul  was  still  with  Louise  da 
Silva,"  so  he  heard.  "People  said  he  would  marry  her  in 
spite  of  all."  Already  the  game  seemed  his ;  only  the  last  card 
to  play;  would  it  be  trumps?  He  hesitated,  half  fearful  of 
the  chance,  and  it  was  October  when  he  put  the  final  touch 
to  his  castle  prison.  Remained  only  the  last  rivet,  the  locking 
of  the  heavy  chain  weaving  itself  round  little  Betty. 

There  was  a  lingering  sweetness  of  summer  in  the  quiet 
woods  and  fields  of  Cloudesley.  Silent  was  the  village  in  the 
mellow  afternoon  sunlight,  and  in  the  lane  dark  shadows  lay 
under  the  trees.  He  stood  by  the  gate  of  the  deserted  cot- 
tage, waiting;  Church  Clock  struck  three,  and  trampling  the 
shadows  under  her  light  feet,  the  sunshine  flickering  on  her 
ruddy  hair,  came  Betty,  laughing,  tripping  gaily,  sorrow  thrust 
behind  till  night  came.  Dimpling,  blushing,  she  put  out  her 
little  brown  hand;  he  held  it  in  a  long  close  pressure,  gazing 
passionately  into  the  sweet  blushing  face  half  turned  from 
him. 

"Betty — sweet — you  got  my  letter?"  She  dropped  her  head 
slightly. 

"And  there  were  no  questions  asked — no?"  He  breathed 
in  relief.  "I'm  glad — I  would  not  have  my  dear  one  troubled. 
Betty,"  he  was  very  near  her,  a  floating  ringlet  touched  his 
face,  "did  you  wonder  what  brought  me  again  so  soon  ?"  She 
gave  him  a  laughing,  coquettish  look ;  he  smiled  down  at  her. 

"You  guessed,  you  rogue.  Betty,"  the  laughing  accents 
grew  soft,  tender ;  he  held  her  hand  still  and  drew  her  nearer, 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  331 

"Betty,  you  guessed  a  little — a  tiny,  tiny  bit — but  you  never 
guessed — never  even  imagined  a  part  of  how  I  wanted  you. 
Oh,  Betty,  sweetheart,  I  love  you,  I  want  you,  I  can't  live 
without  you.  Tell  me,  dearest,"  the  voice  was  a  whisper,  the 
dark  face  so  close  to  hers  that  she  could  feel  its  warmth ;  she 
knew  the  passionate  eyes  were  watching,  watching,  till  their 
fiery  glance  almost  burnt.  "Say  you  love  me,  sweetheart." 

Betty  hung  her  head;  the  great  moment  had  come — it  was 
in  her  power  to  defy  Paul — to  show  the  world  that  there  were 
other  fish  in  the  sea ;  and  yet — she  hesitated. 

"I — I — don't — know."  For  answer  he  gathered  her  close 
in  his  arms,  lifting  her  to  his  level,  devouring  the  soft  peach- 
like  cheeks  with  his  burning  kisses. 

"Now  do  you  know,  sweetheart?"  he  whispered,  and  Betty, 
her  senses  melting  like  snow  by  the  fireside,  her  powers  of  re- 
sistance breaking  down,  lay  still  in  his  arms.  But  only  for  a 
moment. 

"Let  me  go,  Sir  Francis,"  she  whispered,  and  as  though 
content,  he  put  her  away,  only  keeping  his  arms  round  her. 

"I'm  sorry,  Betty — very  sorry;  I  couldn't  help  it.  Oh, 
Betty,  you  know  not  the  fire  of  love.  It  burns — devours. 
Could  not  you  give  me  a  little  in  return?" 

She  stood  silent.  The  pleading  voice  had  rung  in  other 
ears,  but  perhaps  never  had  their  owner  used  them  to  better 
purpose.  Almost — almost — they  persuaded.  A  little  time,  a 
few  more  endearments,  and  a  whispered  "Yes,"  brought  his 
heart  to  his  mouth — set  every  pulse  fluttering.  The  game  was 
his. 

"And  you'll  marry  me,  Betty — "  he  cried  triumphantly,  when 
the  first  wild  burst  of  passion  was  over.  "When?  To-mor- 
row— in  a  week.  I  can't  wait  longer."  He  stooped  over  the 
shining  head  resting  against  him.  "Will  you,  sweetheart?" 

And  Betty,  the  die  cast,  risked  her  all.  Paul  should  see — 
when  she  was  a  grand  lady.  When  all  London  was  at  her 
feet,  as  Sir  Francis  promised,  she  would  meet  him  one  day 
with  a  sweeping  curtsey  of  proud  disdain.  And  the  bliss  of 


332  When  Pan  Pipes 

the  present  was  forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  the  future. 

So,  gradually,  he  insinuated  his  way.  The  marriage  must 
be  secret;  Farmer  Chubbe  would  never  consent  to  his  niece 
marrying  but  of  her  position,  and  Betty  knew  the  argument 
was  good.  Therefore  it  could  not  be  in  Cloudesley.  Jerry 
should  fetch  her,  take  her  to  a  lady,  a  friend  of  his,  and  they 
would  be  married  by  licence  next  morning. 

"Then,  my  Betty,  we'll  spread  our  wings,  and  fly  to  warm 
sunny  countries.  You've  never  seen  blue  skies  and  blue  seas, 
melting  together  under  a  southern  sun.  We'll  go  where  the 
air  is  scented  with  orange  blossom;  where  roses,  crimson, 
pink,  and  yellow,  make  a  riot  of  colour  on  grey  rocks  and 
white-roofed  houses;  where  green  lizards  creep  in  and  out 
stone  walls,  and  dark-haired,  soft-eyed  maidens  sing  songs  of 
love  to  their  guitars,  and  the  hot  day  melts  into  the  cool  dark 
night  in  a  long  lingering  dream  of  love.  And  we'll  come  home 
by  Paris — Paris  the  gay  capital." 

Betty  shrank  away  with  a  little  shiver. 

"Not  Paris,"  she  murmured;  "somehow,  I  don't  think  I 
want  to  see  Paris." 

"Then  we'll  come  straight  back  to  London,"  he  answered 
gaily;  "and  my  Betty  will  be  the  toast  of  the  town,  the  envy 
of  every  woman,  every  man  her  slave." 

So  the  wonderful  story  went  on.  The  day  was  fixed — a 
fortnight  hence;  the  hour,  three  in  the  afternoon.  An  osten- 
sible visit  to  Mrs.  Plumtre  would  allay  suspicion  till  too  late. 
Jerry  should  meet  her  on  the  high  road  outside  Channington, 
and  before  she  knew  where  she  was,  she  would  be  Lady 
Crewe. 

Dreamlike,  the  days  flew  by;  Betty  sang  gaily  at  her  work, 
thrusting  into  the  background  every  thought,  every  forebod- 
ing whisper.  She  would  be  happy — she  must  be — she  wanted 
happiness  so  badly.  Thus,  in  the  dull  October  weather,  when 
the  first  winds  of  winter  blew  round  the  house  and  life  sank 
to  rest  in  the  woods,  the  dark  cloud  dropped  lower,  wrapping 
the  farm  in  its  chilly  mantle,  and  from  leafless  woods  and  rain- 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  333 

sodden  fields,  Pan's  music  sang  a  melancholy  dirge — a  dirge 
for  life  dying,  for  dying  love,  for  dead  hopes. 

Sir  Francis'  elation  knew  no  bounds.  Revenge,  such  as 
only  devils  dream  of,  would  be  his.  And  Betty's  love — his — 
his — till  he  tired  of  it.  A  few  trifles,  and  the  plot  was  com- 
plete. Toby's  deft  fingers  would  write  the  letter  purporting 
to  come  from  Jerry,  making  final  arrangements;  as  luck  had 
it,  he  heard  next  day  that  Jerry  himself  was  leaving  London. 
There  would  be  no  chance  of  any  mishap,  and  Sir  Francis 
waited  in  silent  triumph. 

Margery,  too,  made  her  little  plans.  Jerry,  leave  of  absence 
being  granted  by  the  earl,  tore  himself  from  the  dear  presence, 
and  now  declared  himself  ready  to  follow  the  old  nurse  to 
the  ends  of  the  world.  The  morning  broke  cloudy;  later  on 
the  sun  showed  his  face.  They  started  from  the  Beehive  Inn 
in  La  Belle  Sauvage  Yard,  Reuben  and  Toby  seeing  them 
off,  and  in  half  an  hour's  time  had  left  London  behind  them. 

In  spite  of  love  sickness,  Jerry's  boyish  enjoyment  of  the 
country  broke  out.  There  had  been  heavy  rains,  and  the 
high  road,  free  from  dust,  stretched  wet  and  shining  between 
hedgerows,  each  black  twig  hung  with  sparkling  dewdrops. 
From  the  stubble  fields  rose  birds  with  a  loud  whir-r-r  where 
they  passed,  and  as  the  day  wore  on  and  they  drove  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  heart  of  England,  even  Margery's  face 
caught  something  of  the  sweet  peace  of  the  country. 

They  stayed  one  night  at  Doncaster,  going  on  to  Berwick, 
and  from  there  into  the  wild,  fierce,  north  country.  Green 
hedgerows  changed  to  those  of  sturdy  beech,  crimsoning  un- 
der the  autumn  sun,  brick  gave  place  to  stone,  and  fields 
were  bounded  by  walls  of  the  same.  Still  later,  they  came 
to  mountains,  and  a  strange  sense  of  something  long,  long 
since  familiar,  something  far  away,  perhaps  in  another  age, 
took  possession  of  Jerry;  that  last  day  of  travelling  was,  if 
possible,  more  silent  than  the  preceding  ones,  and  old  Edin- 
burgh, with  its  hills  and  stately  palaces,  brought  it  even  nearer, 
for  with  it  came  back  the  romance  of  that  fair  sweet  queen, 


334  When  Pan  Pipes 

who  loved  and  struggled,  and  wanted  things  so  badly  nearly 
three  hundred  years  since.  He  could  hear  his  father's  voice 
telling  the  tale,  and  Holyrood,  and  something  else,  took  hold 
of  him. 

From  Edinburgh  they  posted.  Through  wild  mountain 
passes,  by  lovely  lakes  and  ruined  castles,  silent  amid  the  si- 
lence, the  curious  feeling  of  kinship  growing  stronger.  They 
stayed  that  night  at  a  wayside  inn.  "And  in  a  few  hours 
we'll  be  there,  sir,"  said  Margery,  as  they  started  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  two  o'clock  when  she  dismissed  the  postchaise. 
Jerry  watched  proceedings  in  amused  bewilderment. 

"Where  do  we  stay  the  night,  Margie?  There's  no  inn  in 
this  place."  Margery  nodded  mysteriously. 

"You'll  see."  They  walked  through  a  wood  of  pines,  giv- 
ing on  to  a  high  road.  About  a  mile  further  on  they  stopped. 
Two  great  gates  of  wrought  iron,  with  crest  and  arms  twined 
among  other  devices,  towered  like  stern  warders ;  beside  them 
were  two  smaller  entrances,  and  through  one  of  these  Margery 
turned. 

A  carriage  road,  firm  and  well  kept,  under  over-arching 
trees,  was  cut  through  a  park,  where  deer  and  cattle  grazed. 
Far,  far  away,  on  a  high  hill-top,  stood  a  castle,  and  as  they 
neared  it,  Jerry  felt  the  little  figure  on  his  arm  tremble  with 
suppressed  emotion.  Presently  she  stopped,  then  sank  against 
a  tree. 

"Oh,  Master  Jerry."  She  covered  her  face;  then  with  a 
wild  sob,  and  flinging  her  hands  from  her,  burst  into  a  tor- 
rent of  words.  The  soft  voice,  the  quiet  English  accents  were 
gone;  instead  was  a  harsh  outpouring  of  Scotch. 

"It's  my  ain  countree,  my  ain  bonnie  mountains,  my  ain 
hame.  And  see — yonder's  the  glen  with  the  lone  tarn.  Ah, 
wae's  me — wae's  me — for  the  lang,  lang  years  gang  by;  for 
the  sin,  and  the  suffering,  and  the  sorrow." 

She  covered  her  face  again,  rocking  gently  to  and  fro. 
Jerry  would  have  said  some  words  of  comfort,  but  she  put 
him  quietly  away,  smoothed  a  few  straggling  tresses  of  hair 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  335 

from  her  forehead  and  started  again.  And  now  the  road 
left  the  level,  cutting  round  the  mountain  side,  leaving  the 
building  at  the  top  for  a  time  unseen.  Suddenly,  with  the 
last  turn,  they  came  upon  it.  Four-square  it  stood,  battle- 
mented,  turretted;  a  bridge,  taking  the  place,  no  doubt,  of 
the  ancient  drawbridge,  wide  and  gravelled,  to  match  the 
road,  led  under  a  great  arched  opening,  with  windows  above, 
to  the  courtyard. 

In  the  hush  of  the  afternoon  their  footsteps  fell  on  the  old 
pavement,  stirring  the  echoes  and  bringing  one  or  two  curious 
heads  to  the  windows.  Margery  took  no  notice  but  went 
steadily  on.  Thinking  that  perhaps  some  of  her  relatives  were 
employed  inside,  Jerry  stopped  and  suggested  waiting  while 
she  did  her  business,  but  grasping  his  arm  firmly  she  shook 
her  head  and  made  straight  for  the  main  entrance. 

White-faced,  half-frightened,  she  pulled  the  hanging  bell 
chain.  Clang — clang.  The  silence  broke  up;  some  startled 
birds,  feeding  in  the  courtyard,  rose  with  a  rustle  of  wings; 
footsteps  came  nearer,  the  heavy  door  opened  wide.  An  old 
man  stood  in  the  entrance,  frowning  as  he  gazed  at  the  little, 
poorly  clothed  figure.  He  stepped  forward  and  pointed  a  fin- 
ger across  the  courtyard — 

"Hae  ye  no  sense  o'  decency,  woman?"  he  began.  "Yon 
door's  for  the  likes  o'  ye."  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  and  her 
voice  rang  clear. 

"Dinna  ye  ken  me,  Dougal  McTavish?  Hae  ye  forgotten 
Margery  Lisle?" 

"Margery  Lisle,"  he  repeated  slowly,  gazing  silently  at  the 
upturned  face,  cautiously  scanning  every  feature ;  remembrance 
slowly  returning,  "Margery  Lisle,"  he  said  again;  "I  never 
thoucht  to  set  eyes  again  on  ye,  Margery.  Wha  hae  ye  been 
these  lang  years?" 

"A  mony  miles  fra  bonnie  Scotland,"  replied  Margery. 
"An'  noo,  Dougal,  I'm  for  seein'  the  laird." 

"The  laird."  He  held  up  his  hands  in  astonished  protest. 
"Was  ever  the  likes?  Hoots,  woman,  I  darena  disturb  him 


336  When  Pan  Pipes 

at  this  hour.  He's  sleepin'."  Margery  moved  up  a  step  till 
she  stood  on  the  same  level  as  the  old  retainer. 

"A've  a  message  for  the  laird,  Dougal,"  she  said  solemnly. 
"A  message  frae  the  dead  tae  the  livin',  it'll  no  wait  any 
longer."  The  old  man  looked  distressed. 

"I  darena,  woman,  'twould  cost  me  ma  place,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"An*  I  darena  leave  it,  Dougal,"  replied  Margery  sternly. 
"Will  ye  be  takin'  the  message  ?"  He  shook  his  head. 

"I  darena."    For  answer  she  pushed  him  aside. 

"Then  I'll  gae  mysel',  Dougal  McTavish;  I  ken  the  way — 
'tis  no  the  first  time  I've  been  here.  Let  me  gang." 

"Stay,  woman — ye  canna  gang.  If  needs  be,"  he  added 
slowly,  "I'll  tak  the  message  mysel'."  She  stepped  back. 

"Then  awa  wi'  ye,  Dougal  McTavish,  an'  tell  the  laird  Mar- 
gery Lisle's  for  speakin'  wi'  him.  An'  tell  him  she  brings 
a  message  fra  one  he  loved.  An'  tell  him,"  her  voice  rang 
clear  and  triumphant,  "tell  him  she's  kept  her  trust,  an'  that 
wi'  her  comes  Gervaise  Ross,  the  young  Laird  o'  Ardelimar. 
Tell  him  that,  Dougal  McTavish." 

The  old  man's  face  was  a  sight;  amazement,  dim  remem- 
brance struggling  out  of  the  past,  caution  and  fear,  kept  him 
silent.  Margery  stamped  her  foot  peremptorily. 

"Will  ye  no  gang?"  she  cried  angrily.     He  nodded. 

"Aye — I'm  gangin'."     She  waved  her  hand  onward. 

"Then  awa  wi'  ye."    He  shuffled  slowly  off. 

"Waken  the  laird  at  this  hour!  Dougal,  Dougal,  the  wom- 
an's mad." 

Margery  watched  him  across  the  dim  black  and  white  paved 
entrance  hall,  watched,  till  he  passed  through  the  heavy  cur- 
tains screening  the  inner  hall;  then  turned  and  sank  into  a 
chair,  white  and  shaking.  Bewildered,  slightly  annoyed  at 
the  turn  things  had  taken,  Jerry  whispered  a  few  words — 

"Margery,  tell  me  what  it  means ;  let  me  wait  outside."  She 
held  his  arm. 

"No,  sir,  no — bide  quiet — ye'll  be  hearin'  gran'  news.  I'm 
no  mad,  sir — I  ken  ma  wark."  He  stepped  back  with  a  shrug, 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  337 

letting  her  have  her  way;  at  the  worst  it  could  only  mean  a 
somewhat  ignominious  exit  and  a  journey  back  to  London. 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence ;  a  clock  ticked  gravely  some- 
where, the  hush  of  thick  carpets,  of  yard-deep  walls,  of  noise- 
less servants,  the  hush  only  known  in  wealthy  dwellings,  was 
over  all.  Footsteps  sounded  somewhere  far  off.  Margery 
rose,  adjusted  her  bonnet  with  trembling  fingers,  smoothed 
her  shawl,  repinned  it  with  the  agate  brooch  which  was  a 
part  of  herself,  and  stood  in  expectant  silence.  The  footsteps 
came  nearer,  they  were  behind  the  curtain,  a  voice — and  some- 
thing stirred  in  Jerry — sounded  querulously. 

"You're  mad,  Dougal — mad — waking  me  at  this  time,  and 
bringing  me  here  with  some  cock-and-bull  story." 

The  curtain  was  lifted,  a  glimpse  caught  of  Dougal  stand- 
ing straight  and  statue-like.  Someone  passed  through,  the 
curtain  dropped.  Margery  curtseyed,  curtseyed  again  and 
again,  as  a  little  old  gentleman,  thin,  alert,  with  a  frown  on 
his  face,  came  forward. 

"What  is  it?  What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  impatiently. 
"I'm  not  accustomed  to  see  people  at  this  hour.  You  are 
strangers,  perhaps,  and  do  not  know  my  ways.  Dougal  told 
me  someone  wanted  me  on  important  business."  Margery 
curtseyed  again,  then  stood  upright. 

"Aye,  laird — 'tis  urgent  business.  Sir — "  she  stepped  nearer, 
"hae  ye  forgotten  Margery  Lisle?" 

"Margery  Lisle!"  He  turned  instinctively  for  support  to 
a  solid  oak  chair ;  Jerry  saw  his  face  change. 

"Margery  Lisle,"  he  repeated  slowly.     "You  are  she?" 

"Aye,  laird." 

"Then — then — "  the  thin  gnarled  fingers  caught  convulsively 
at  the  carving.  Margery  went  on  calmly : 

"I've  a  message,  laird;  a  message  fra  my  dear,  dead  mas- 
ter." 

"Dead,  Margery?"  The  fingers  relaxed,  the  slight  form 
dropped  heavily  to  the  chair;  he  covered  his  face. 

"Dead — dead;  my  boy — my  boy — and  yet — I  knew  it — I've 


338  When  Pan  Pipes 

known  it  always."  Margery  waited;  presently  he  took  his 
hands  away — the  face  was  drawn  with  pain. 

"I've  messages,  laird,  a  mony,  but  there's  one,"  she  half 
turned  to  Jerry,  standing  between  them,  "one  message  he 
left  in  my  charge,  a  trust.  Laird,  it's  a  grandson  I'm  bringin' 
ye,  it's  the  young  laird,  Gervaise  Ross  o'  Ardelimar." 

Jerry  started  forward.  The  words  heard  before  had  passed 
unnoticed;  now  they  conveyed  their  meaning.  The  laird  rose 
from  his  seat,  his  face  ashen  grey,  and  seized  her  wrist. 

"Woman,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "have  a  care ;  if  you're  telling 
me  a  lie — " 

"It's  no  lie,  sir,"  she  replied  earnestly.  "Oh,  laird,  let  me 
tell  my  tale;  it's  a  lang  ane,  an'  a  sorrowful — but  there's  hope 
an'  happiness  mingled  wi'  it."  He  dropped  her  hand,  for- 
bearing to  glance  at  Jerry,  and  turned  slowly. 

"I'll  hear  it,"  he  said.     "Come,  follow  me." 

He  led  the  way,  courteously  holding  the  curtain  for  Margery 
to  pass  under,  leaving  it  in  Jerry's  hand  to  drop.  As  he  turned 
to  follow,  remembrance  again  struck,  turning  him  giddy,  al- 
most as  a  bodily  blow.  The  hall,  vast  and  dim,  the  great  fire- 
places piled  with  logs,  the  oaken  screens  and  settles,  the  high 
stained  windows,  were  alike  familiar.  He  remembered,  and 
his  heart  sank.  No  real  place  this,  only  one  of  books — of 
the  book  bought  long  ago.  Giving  it  a  long  look,  recalling 
his  childish  love,  he  hurried  after  the  others. 

Through  another  door,  into  a  gallery  of  pictured  men  and 
women  he  went ;  a  table  stood  under  a  great  window,  and  the 
late  afternoon  sun  shining  down  on  it  fell  on  something  gleam- 
ing white.  Margery  saw  it  first.  Flinging  up  her  arms  with 
a  wild  gesture,  she  sank  on  her  knees,  fumbling  for  the  wooden 
rosary  which  hung  at  her  waist. 

"Mother  of  God,"  she  cried,  "dear  lady,  blessed  saints  in 
Heaven  be  praised ;  it's  the  'Pan.' " 

Her  head  fell,  the  shaking  fingers  moved  over  the  beads, 
her  lips  struggled  tremulously  in  prayer.  The  old  man  stood 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  339 

silently  watching,  his  face  working  with  emotion.  Suddenly 
she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Master  Jerry,  sir,  the  relic!     Quick — oh,  quick!" 

With  some  dim  understanding  he  felt  inside  his  collar  and 
drew  up  the  ribbon  on  which  hung  the  packet.  Margery 
caught  at  it,  broke  the  seal,  but  her  fingers  failed ;  she  looked 
up  at  Jerry,  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face.  The  laird 
stood  by,  his  shaking  hands  stroking  down  his  lips  as  though 
to  keep  them  from  trembling.  Jerry  undid  the  knots  and  re- 
turned the  bag.  Margery  felt  inside  and  drew  out  a  tiny  parcel. 

"Keep  it,  sir."  She  handed  it  to  Jerry.  "It's  Father  An- 
drew's relic,  and  it  has  kept  the  other  these  years." 

The  second  try  produced  a  small  gilt  key,  and  she  rose 
solemnly,  passing  to  the  other  side  of  the  table.  The  laird 
watched  with  hungry  eyes  as  she  searched  among  the  marble 
leaves  and  grasses  of  the  bank,  then  breathed  a  little  sigh 
of  thankfulness.  The  two  men  drew  close  and  closer,  till 
each  was  conscious  of  the  other's  proximity.  Cunningly  hid- 
den among  the  work  was  a  tiny  keyhole;  Margery  inserted 
the  key,  turned  it,  and  the  god  moved  slowly  round,  his  laugh- 
ing face  towards  them,  disclosing  a  narrow  aperture,  in  which 
lay  an  envelope. 

The  laird  put  out  a  trembling  hand  and  Margery  fell  back; 
for  the  inscription  on  it  was,  "To  my  dear  father." 

Oh,  the  piteousness  of  the  old  face,  the  sudden  look  of 
age ;  Jerry's  heart  went  out,  and,  as  with  a  simultaneous 
thought,  the  laird  came  to  him,  putting  the  letter  inside  his 
breast  pocket;  the  reading  of  it  was  for  no  other  eyes. 

"His  son?     Margery,  is  it  true?    Is  this  my  grandson?" 

"It's  true,  sir,  true." 

"Gervaise,  my  boy's  boy.     Let  me  look  at  you." 

He  led  him  to  the  window,  scrutinising  every  feature,  strok- 
ing the  big  brown  hands. 

"Yes,  yes ;  he  has  his  father's  look,  and  yet — "  he  frowned. 
Margery  finished  the  sentence. 


340  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Yes,  laird,  he's  like  his  mother,  who's  safe  in  heaven  with 
the  saints — she  was  one  before  she  died.  Oh,  sir,  she  was  the 
sweetest,  bonniest  wife  that  ever  man  had;  never  a  better 
woman  lived  than  my  dear  mistress,  even  if  she  was  but  a 
village  lass,  and  my  young  master  thought  the  world  well  lost 
for  her." 

"Yes,  Margery.  I've  known  it  for  many  a  year;  I've  re- 
pented bitterly,  and  I've  paid  the  price." 

"Ye  hare  that,  laird,"  replied  Margery  simply.  "And  now 
the  past's  past ;  'tis  the  present  and  future  ye'll  live  for." 

"I  will,  so  help  me  God,"  answered  the  old  man  solemnly. 
"Grandson  Gervaise — give  me  your  arm;  and  Margery,  come 
with  us ;  we'll  hear  the  tale  of  the  past." 

The  wonder  of  it  all,  the  story  of  a  love,  long  since  given 
and  returned,  still  living  somewhere;  the  sorrow — the  pain 
of  those  bygone  days.  Trouble,  repentance,  happiness,  hope, 
wound  in  and  out  like  threads  of  black,  grey,  and  gold,  and 
Jerry  understood  his  father's  work.  For  in  the  face  of  the 
god  was  nature  itself — inscrutable,  mocking,  cruel,  yet  full  of 
love  and  gentleness,  joy  and  gladness.  And  as  the  tale  was 
told,  he  knew  that  life  repeated  itself,  that  love  is  ever  the 
same.  As  his  father  loved,  so  he  too  loved — so,  in  the  ages 
past  had  men  loved,  and  in  the  generations  to  come  nature's 
song  would  still  be — "I  love  you — I  love  you — for  ever — for 
ever." 

They  sat  till  the  afternoon  sun  fell  behind  the  mountains, 
but  Margery's  tale  was  not  all  told. 

"Yourself,  woman — "  said  the  laird  peremptorily.  "Tell 
us  of  yourself."  She  resisted  long;  at  length  she  dropped 
her  head  on  her  hands,  weeping,  and  with  the  tears  the  bitter- 
ness was  swept  away.  She  raised  her  head  and  told  them  in 
a  few  words — 

"Sir,  they  took  us — one  moonlight  night,  on  the  prairie. 
They  killed  the  men  and  children,  and  took  the  women  pris- 
oners. The  younger  ones — "  She  shivered  and  put  her  hands 
before  her  eyes,  as  though  to  shut  out  the  past.  "Laird — laird 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  341 

— with  my  own  hands  I  shot  my  young  sister.  It  was  his  last 
word  as  he  was  struck  down,  and  she  begged  me  to  let  her 
follow  him.  We  older  ones,  they  kept,  as — slaves.  For 
years  we  worked  and  toiled,  travelling  with  them,  seeing  fear- 
ful sights.  Laird,  they're  written  in  my  heart  till  the  last 
trump  shall  sound,  till  I  see  my  dear  ones  again.  A  year  ago 
we  came  to  a  city;  I  was  old — almost  useless — and  perhaps 
they  did  not  keep  so  strict  a  watch.  Anyhow,  I  escaped,  and 
made  my  way  to  English  people;  they  helped  me,  but  they 
were  poor,  and  could  only  give  me  sufficient  to  keep  me  from 
starvation  till  I  reached  a  port.  It  took  me  many  weeks,  and 
when  I  got  there  I  found  a  boat  had  just  left,  and  there  were 
many  days  to  wait.  Earning  a  little  here  and  there,  and  work- 
ing my  passage  home  by  attending  to  two  ladies,  we  reached 
Liverpool,  but — I  was — penniless,  and — "  the  tears  streamed 
down;  she  wiped  them  away  and  smiled  wanly — "laird,  Mas- 
ter Jerry,  will  you  ever  forgive  me?  I  begged  my  way — an' 
— an' — when  I  reached  London — I  was — starving.  Sirs — " 
she  spoke  quickly,  "that's  my  tale;  it's  told.  The  past's  past. 
Never  speak  of  it  again."  The  laird  said  nothing;  only  he 
rose,  and  stooping,  took  the  little  withered  hand  in  his  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips.  Jerry  caught  her  to  him. 

"Margie,  Margie,  my  dear  Margie."  So  the  evening  came. 
Dougal  brought  lamps;  the  laird  rose. 

"Gervaise,  there  are  clothes  of  your  father's — old  fashioned, 
perhaps,  but  we  are  so  ourselves.  Come  with  me." 

They  clothed  him  in  those  clothes  of  bygone  days,  which 
after  all,  were  not  so  vastly  different ;  the  black  satin  breeches, 
the  silk  stockings  and  diamond  buckled  shoes,  the  cut-away 
coat  and  smart  waistcoat,  the  frilled  shirt,  the  high  cravat, 
and  Jerry,  looking  at  himself  in  the  long  pier  glass,  suddenly 
realised  his  position.  The  pride  of  race  was  upon  him;  no 
more  would  he  envy  the  slight  elegance  of  Francis  Crewe, 
his  own  was  a  sterner  breed.  Strength,  breadth,  height,  were 
his  heritage,  and  he  gloried  in  them.  Mary — again  the  thrill 
of  realisation — he  could  marry  her,  he  was  her  equal,  to  woo 


342  When  Pan  Pipes 

and  win,  despite  the  convent.  And  with  a  new  dignity  he 
went  down  to  dinner,  served  that  night  in  the  great  banqueting 
chamber,  with  a  magnificence  unknown  for  years. 

"  Tis  a  grand  day,"  said  Dougal  to  Andrew,  the  laird's 
own  man;  "for  the  heir's  come  hame  to  his  ain,  and  there'll 
likely  be  merrymaking,  an'  feasting,  and  wha  kens  the  end? 
— maybe  a  wedding  feast." 

Margery,  clad  in  a  black  silk  gown  lent  by  the  housekeeper, 
sorely  against  her  will,  obeyed  the  peremptory  command  of 
the  laird  that  she  should  dine  with  them,  and  though  the  meal 
went  almost  untasted  by  two  of  the  three — Jerry's  healthy 
appetite  was  proof  against  even  such  wonders — it  was  a  happy 
time,  though  tempered  by  sad  remembrance. 

Sleep  was  long  coming  that  night,  even  to  Jerry.  In  the 
morning  the  laird  took  him  round  the  picture  gallery,  finding 
likenesses  here  and  there.  Of  the  letter  he  said  nothing — 
not  till  many  years  after  did  Jerry  see  it — but  he  spoke  of  an 
enclosure. 

"Your  mother's  marriage  certificate  was  there,  Gervaise; 
the  only  link  wanted  to  establish  your  identity." 

The  days  slipped  by.  Then  Jerry,  anxious,  in  spite  of  all 
the  new  found  grandeur,  to  get  back,  formed  a  plan.  Ro- 
mance had  come,  romance  should  be  kept.  He  laughed  gaily 
as  he  formed  it.  The  laird  listened,  frowning,  as  he  begged 
leave  to  go. 

"The  sittings,"  he  exclaimed  haughtily;  "what  are  they  to 
the  future  Laird  of  Ardelimar?"  Jerry  mentioned  no  names; 
it  was  part  of  the  plan,  only  begged,  finally  insisting. 

"Grandfather,  I  must  go.  I  promised."  Fate  helped  him, 
for  that  same  day  came  a  letter  from  Toby.  It  contained  very 
little,  but  that  little  was  insistent. 

"Jerry,"  it  said,  "come  back;  for  the  sake  of  one  you  love 
— of  your  friend,  to  save  me,  come  back.  You  must  be  in 
this  house  not  later  than  half-past  seven  on  the  evening  of  the 
thirtieth  of  October — earlier,  if  you  please,  but  no  later,  or 


Jerry  on  a  Quest  343 

all  will  be  lost.  You  will  find  instructions  with  Reuben,  obey 
them  implicitly.  I  know  I  can  trust  you." 

It  was  a  strange  letter,  but  it  gave  the  final  touch.  Re- 
luctantly the  laird  yielded  to  his  entreaties. 

"But  you'll  come  back,  grandson,"  he  cried,  almost  piteously ; 
"I'm  alone,  quite  alone ;  and  you're  my  all,  you  know."  Jerry 
answered  quickly. 

"Of  course  I'll  come  back,  grandfather,  but  I  want  you  to 
keep  it  secret  till  then.  Don't  let  it  be  public  till  my  birth- 
day. If  Margery  hadn't  been  so  afraid  of  something  happen- 
ing, you  know  we  shouldn't  have  come  yet;  so  please,  grand- 
father, keep  it  till  then."  Wondering,  but  holding  it  as  a 
bribe  to  bring  him  back,  the  old  man  promised. 

"We'll  have  great  doings  on  your  birthday,  grandson  Ger- 
vaise.  And  then  you  shall  come  home  to  your  rightful  place 
and  learn  the  management  of  an  estate,  the  ways  and  man- 
ners of  a  great  nobleman ;  for  you'll  be  the  head  of  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  Scotland,  Gervaise ;  few  can  take  precedence 
of  Ross  of  Ardelimar."  And  then  Jerry  put  a  question  which 
had  been  in  his  mind  for  some  days. 

"Grandfather,  Gervaise  is  not  a  Scotch  name — how  came 
it  into  our" — oh,  the  delight  of  the  pronoun — "family?" 

The  laird's  face  lit  up.  "Grandson,  the  question  is  well 
put.  Long  ago,  when  Mary  Stuart  left  her  native  land  for 
her  husband's,  she  took  with  her  certain  nobles,  Ross  of 
Ardelimar  being  one.  When  she  returned,  they  came  with 
her,  remaining  faithful  to  her  through  the  unhappy  years. 
A  child  was  born,  to  whom  our  queen  stood  sponsor,  giving 
it  the  name  Gervaise ;  which  name  has  descended  to  the  eldest 
child,  for,  failing  a  son,  Ardelimar  descends  through  daugh- 
ters, in  memory  of  that  most  persecuted  and  sainted  lady." 

To  stories  such  as  these  Jerry  could  have  listened  for  ever, 
for  the  sense  of  lineage  and  rank  was  strong  within  him. 
But  for  that  other  love  which  called  him,  which  would  have 
called  him  from  heaven,  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to 


344  When  Pan  Pipes 

tear  himself  away.  As  it  was,  he  dreamed  dreams  in  which 
he  was  the  narrator  and  his  listener  a  maiden,  fair  as  that 
other  maiden  of  long  ago,  whose  presence  would  wake  the 
sleeping  castle  to  life. 

The  laird's  ideas  of  travelling  were  confined  to  a  carriage 
with  his  own  outriders,  and  relays  of  horses  sent  on  before- 
hand. Failing  that,  to  post  in  the  ordinary  way.  But  Jerry 
would  have  neither ;  they  would  return  as  they  came.  A  com- 
promise was  effected,  and  they  drove  to  Edinburgh  in  state, 
accompanied  by  the  laird,  stayed  the  night,  and  catching  the 
early  coach,  set  out  on  the  homeward  way,  secrecy  being  ob- 
served according  to  Jerry's  wishes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

OF  BLACK   CLOUDS  AND  SHADOWS 

MANY  a  time  in  after  life  did  Mrs.  Chubbe  look  back  on 
those  October  days  and  chide  herself  for  lack  of  insight. 

"I  must  ha'  been  a  fool,"  she  would  say,  "not  to  know  that 
o'er  much  gaiety  covers  a  sore  heart.  'Twas  the  same  wi'  my 
Lady  Mima;  tho'  to  be  sure,  her  heart  was  sore  only  wi'  the 
thoughts  o'  leavin'  her  home — there  was  true  love  there — an' 
that  our  Betty  never  had  for  him,"  she  would  add  fiercely — 
"not  so  much  as  would  cover  a  fourpenny  bit." 

But  at  the  time,  Betty's  gay  laughter  and  sunny  smiles 
roused  all  the  pride  and  love  in  Martha  Chubbe's  heart.  The 
farmer's  admiration  knew  no  bounds.  Never  a  market  day 
passed  but  some  fairing  returned  with  him,  nothing  was  too 
good,  and  on  the  day  bfefore  she  was  to  go  to  Mrs.  Plumtre's 
her  uncle  produced  from  his  capacious  pocket  a  small  parcel. 

He  watched  her  open  it,  looking  for  the  sparkling  light  in 
her  eyes,  eager  for  the  quick  embrace,  the  words  of  thanks, 
the  warm  kisses.  He  waited  in  vain.  Betty  slowly  untied 
the  string,  lifted  the  lid  from  the  cardboard  box,  and  with  a 
brief  glance  at  the  pretty  gold  locket  and  chain  within,  flung 
it  on  a  table,  and  flying  to  the  ready  arms,  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder  and  burst  into  passionate  sobs. 

"Betty,  Betty,  lass — what's  amiss  wi'  it?"  asked  the  aston- 
ished farmer,  a  little  hurt  at  the  turn  things  had  taken.  Betty 
sobbed  out  her  answer — 

"Oh,  uncle  Matt— it's— it's — not  that.  It's  lovely— much 
too  good.  Oh,  you're  so  good — so  kind — and — I'm  a — wicked 
girl."  He  soothed  her  gently;  Mrs.  Chubbe,  watching  in 
astonishment,  chimed  in. 

345 


346  When  Pan  Pipes 

"The  child's  tired,  master;  she's  had  a  long  day — butter 
wouldn't  come  this  morning,  and  she's  excited  at  going  on  a 
visit.  Come,  Betty  girl,  'tain't  like  you  to  cry  for  nothing." 
The  gentle  tone,  coming  from  her  aunt,  only  made  matters 
worse.  The  farmer  let  her  cry  quietly  on,  gently  stroking 
the  bright  hair.  For  once  Mrs.  Chubbe  was  perplexed,  and 
left  things  to  her  husband. 

"The  change'll  do  her  good,"  she  murmured,  as  she  ironed 
nightcaps  and  pocket  handkerchiefs,  to  be  packed  presently 
— "an'  when  she  comes  back,  I'll  gi'  her  a  thorough  good  dose 
o'  bark;  it's  the  autumn  weather." 

The  tears  exhausted,  Betty  cried  no  more,  only  quietly 
resting  against  her  uncle's  broad  shoulder.  She  packed  the 
little  box  ready  for  the  morning,  undressed,  and  lay  down 
for  the  last  time  in  the  little  white  bed,  and  with  sleepless 
eyes,  stared  out  at  the  deep,  dark  sky.  "Lady  Crewe" — the 
name  brought  comfort  of  a  kind;  were  it  not  for  leaving  her 
uncle  and  aunt,  she  would  be  perfectly  happy,  she  told  her- 
self. He  loved  her,  how  could  she  help  loving  him ;  he  was 
so  good,  so  kind.  Of  course,  she  loved  him.  "I  do — I  do — " 
she  repeated  convincingly — "of  course  I  do;  why,  I'm  going 
to  marry  him,  that  means  I  love  him."  With  which  sophistry 
she  turned  over  and  shut  her  eyes. 

But  sleep  was  not  for  that  night.  She  rose  early — dawdled 
over  her  dressing ;  the  minutes  seemed  hours.  Was  all  ready  ? 
She  went  over  plans,  there  was  no  weak  place.  The  letter 
written  to  Mrs.  Plumtre  had  appointed  the  following  day; 
she  had  persuaded  her  uncle  to  let  her  go  with  David  the  car- 
rier, instead  of  taking  him  from  his  work.  Yes,  all  was  in 
order.  Good-byes  were  said,  last  injunctions,  and  the  lum- 
bering waggon  jogged  away,  the  first  step  taken  towards  the 
brilliant  future.  What  with  delivery  of  goods  and  commis- 
sions taken  on  the  way  it  was  two  o'clock  before  the  carrier 
pulled  up  before  a  little  wayside  inn.  Here  she  determined 
to  alight.  In  the  course  of  conversation  she  had  managed 


Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows  847 

to  convey  to  David's  mind  the  fact  that  she  was  spending 
the  night  with  a  friend  in  the  town,  and  would  go  on  to  Mrs. 
Plumtre's  the  next  day.  The  implied  falsehood  went  sorely 
against  Betty's  proud  nature,  but  having  begun  she  would 
not  falter.  The  little  bag  containing  immediate  necessities 
heightened  the  impression,  and  without  suspicion  her  box  was 
delivered  at  the  Swan. 

Skirting  the  town — for  acquaintances  might  be  encountered 
and  awkward  questions  asked — she  crossed  fields  and  lanes, 
finally  coming  out  on  the  highway  the  other  side  of  Channing- 
ton.  Her  heart  beat  wildly;  another  few  minutes  and  her 
fate  was  sealed.  There  was  still  time.  She  hesitated,  half 
turned,  then  a  cloud  of  dust  moved  in  the  far  distance. 
Nearer  it  came — nearer;  she  shrank  into  the  grassy  sideway; 
the  cloud  of  dust  moved  onwards,  resolving  itself  into  a  trav- 
elling carriage,  quiet  and  neat.  Someone  was  looking  out 
of  the  window,  and  her  heart  bounded  with  relief.  Jerry — 
all  her  doubts  were  silenced ;  then  something  unfamiliar  struck 
her;  this  was  a  stranger,  and  her  heart  sank.  The  carriage 
stopped;  its  occupant  got  out  and  came  towards  her,  hat  in 
hand. 

"Miss  Betty  Chubbe,  I  believe."  She  bowed  her  head  to 
hide  the  tears  of  disappointment. 

"My  name  is  Dingle — Toby  Dingle.  Sir  Francis  Crewe 
sent  me.  Our  friend,  Mr.  Jerry  Dell,  is  out  of  town  and  was 
unable  to  come;  he  sent  this  letter."  Betty  snatched  the 
folded  sheets  from  him;  those  fateful  words  of  which  Jerry, 
travelling  post  haste  from  the  north,  knew  nothing.  Toby, 
his  heart  bursting  with  impotent  anguish  and  remorse,  watched 
the  changing  face.  She  folded  the  letter  and  stood  upright. 

"He  says  I  am  to  trust  you  implicitly;  and  that  he  will 
meet  me  at  Sir  Francis'  house,  and  take  me  to  his  friend's 
for  the  night.  Is  that  so?"  Toby  inclined  his  head — he  had 
no  words. 

"Then — in  that  case — I  will  come."    He  held  the  door  while 


348  When  Pan  Pipes 

she  stepped  in ;  the  horses'  heads  were  turned,  and  with  swift 
movement  they  started  on  the  journey  which  was  to  bring  for- 
tune and  wealth,  and,  best  of  all,  revenge,  to  Betty. 

Along  the  great  north  road  the  mail  coach  took  its  accus- 
tomed way,  heedless  of  the  impatience  of  one  of  its  passengers. 
They  were  due  in  London  at  seven  o'clock;  plenty  of  time  if 
all  went  well;  but  to  Jerry  it  seemed  that  everything  com- 
bined for  delay.  A  few  minutes  lost  in  starting  was  gained ; 
a  slight  accident  to  a  wheel  detained  them,  but  by  six  o'clock 
time  was  made  up,  and  St.  Clement's  struck  seven  as  they 
clattered  into  the  yard  of  the  Bell  and  Crown  in  Holborn. 

He  called  a  hackney  coach,  hustled  Margery  in,  and  giving 
directions  to  drive  like  fury,  got  in  himself,  and  listened  to  a 
severe  reprimand  on  the  extravagance  of  spending  when  un- 
necessary. Reuben  was  expecting  them ;  someone  else  wait- 
ing in  the  hall  seized  him  and  drew  him  in. 

"Paul— you— " 

"Yes,  yes ;  don't  ask  questions,  Jerry ;  answer  them.  What 
does  this  mean  ?"  He  drew  out  a  letter.  "Listen :  'Come  at 
once — at  once,  if  you  still  love  her.  Come  and  save  her.  Go 
to  the  house  in  the  square  and  wait  till  half -past  seven ;  then 
to  Sir  Francis  Crewe's  by  nine — not  earlier.  Down  a  side 
alley  is  a  small  door,  the  key  of  which  you  will  get  from 
Reuben  Gade.  Enter,  and  leave  the  door  unbarred.  Up- 
stairs— you  may  perhaps  know  it — is  the  great  drawing-room. 
Here  you  will  find  Sir  Francis ;  keep  him  engaged  till  I  come. 
All  will  be  explained.'  What  does  it  mean,  Jerry — tell  me?" 

But  Jerry  had  no  explanation.  Silently  Reuben  handed  him 
a  letter.  The  handwriting  was  the  same,  the  directions  sim- 
ilar; it  seemed  that  the  writer  feared  that  one  or  other  should 
fail.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and  simultaneously  came  the 
words :  "We'll  go  together." 

"The  key,  Reuben."  Paul  held  out  his  hand  and  glanced 
at  the  clock. 

"Plenty  of  time,"  answered  Jerry. 


Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows  349 


"Plenty  of  time!"  echoed  Paul  savagely.  "Time!  you  can 
talk  of  time  when  each  minute  may  mean  a  minute  nearer  to 
death — or  worse.  Time!"  He  paced  up  and  down  fiercely. 
"Ah,  Jerry,  it's  plain  you  don't  know  what  love  is.  Oh,  my 
love,  my  love — my  Betty;  what  devil's  work  has  been  played 
on  us?" 

"Betty!"  Jerry  echoed  in  astonishment,  "Betty!"  Paul 
turned  furiously. 

"Betty,  of  course;  who  else  should  it  be?"  A  vague  ex- 
planation of  many  things  trembled  at  the  back  of  Jerry's 
mind.  Little  incidents  came  back,  trifles  which  had  puzzled 
him  slightly,  and  with  them  mistrust  of  Toby.  Paul,  fuming 
helplessly,  watched  the  clock,  finally  snatching  his  hat  and 
cloak. 

"Come,  Jerry,  we'll  walk — walk  till  it's  time  to  go  in.  I 
can't  wait  longer.  We  can  talk  as  we  go." 

Even  if  Jerry  had  wanted  to  tell  his  news  it  would  have 
been  impossible.  He  had  to  listen  to  the  tale  of  misery,  hope- 
less love,  duplicity — and  his  heart  sank  fathoms  deep  as  re- 
luctantly, yet  instinctively,  he  knew  that  Toby  had  been 
false.  In  vain  he  tried  to  explain  away  things.  Knowing 
Betty,  he  thought  she  might  have  been  tempted  by  wealth, 
position. 

"I've  written  to  her,  Jerry — written,  written — till  only  a 
heart  of  stone  could  have  resisted.  Only  last  week  I  sent 
to  her,  begging  her  to  think  twice  before  she  married  him; 
for  he's  bad,  Jerry,  bad  as  hell  holds  them." 

"We'll  save  her  yet,  Paul — never  fear,"  cried  Jerry  hope- 
fully. "Cheer  up,  man,  things  will  come  right."  Paul  groaned 
in  reply.  They  were  turning  west;  the  river,  under  a  dark 
sky,  gleamed  dimly. 

"Jerry,  if  she's  false,"  he  whispered,  waving  a  hand  to- 
wards it,  "that  remains  for  me.  If  we're  too  late,  then,  death 
for  him." 

Past  the  quiet,  stately  abbey,  past  bright  houses,  gay  with 
voices  and  laughter,  they  went.  Paul  looked  at  his  watch, 


350 When  Pan  Pipes 

it  wanted  half  an  hour,  and  he  groaned  impatiently.    Jerry 
took  his  arm  and  drew  him  sharply  onwards. 

"A  quarter  of  an  hour  out,"  he  said,  "and  a  quarter  back, 
or  nearly — and  keep  up  your  courage,  Paul,  dear  old  fellow." 
So  those  last  minutes,  each  an  eternity,  were  lived  through. 

Leo  House  was  bright  with  light ;  the  long  line  of  windows 
on  the  upper  floor  glared  like  yellow  eyes  into  the  peaceful 
darkness  and  waving  trees  in  the  gardens.  Outside  all  was 
quiet,  inside,  the  stillness  was  more  apparent.  Not  a  foot- 
step fell,  not  a  whisper  echoed.  The  great  hall,  garish  with 
its  gold  and  red  and  white,  was  silent  as  the  grave.  The 
statue  of  Mirth  laughed  dumbly  as  it  caught  reflections  of 
ruddy  things;  no  footmen  dawdled  at  the  doors,  no  flutter 
of  a  woman  servant's  skirts  stirred  the  echoes.  The  house 
was  empty,  save  for  its  master. 

In  the  long  drawing-room,  Francis  Crewe  waited  impa- 
tiently. The  cards  were  played,  another  half  hour  and  the 
game  was  his.  He  glanced  at  his  watch,  muttered  an  impre- 
cation on  the  slow  moving  hands,  and  throwing  open  a  window, 
gazed  up  and  down  the  dark  pavement. 

"Damn  the  fellow!"  he  cried  savagely,  "will  he  never  come?" 
then  fell  to  pacing  the  room  from  end  to  end,  and  back  again. 
The  long  gilt  mirrors  reflected  the  slender,  agile  figure  clad  in 
evening  attire;  the  polished  floor,  inlaid  with  pale  coloured 
woods,  echoed  to  the  light  footsteps.  Backwards  and  forwards, 
backwards  and  forwards,  now  stopping  to  look  at  his  watch,  or 
the  gilt  and  ormolu  clock  on  a  marble  and  gilt  side  table — now, 
with  shaking  hands,  to  pour  out  and  drink  a  glass  of  wine. 

The  pointers  of  the  timepiece  moved  slowly  on.  Suddenly 
a  sound  roused  him ;  a  sound  so  slight  that,  but  for  the  ghostly 
stillness,  it  would  have  passed  unnoticed.  He  stopped  and 
turned  quickly  to  the  door,  a  smile  on  his  face.  She  had 
come — Toby  had  not  failed  him.  But  the  smile  died,  giving 
place  to  a  fierce  expression  of  anger  as  it  opened,  and  the 
woman,  veiled  in  her  outdoor  draperies,  stood  before  him. 
He  strode  towards  her. 


351 


"Hester — what  brings  you  here?" 

"What  should  bring  me  here?"  she  returned  evasively,  dis-4 
engaging  herself  from  the  black  cloak  and  veil.  "I  come,  as 
usual,  Francis — for  love  of  you." 

"Pshaw !"  he  retorted  angrily.  "I  told  you  not  to  come  to- 
night; I  am  expecting  company." 

"Yes."  She  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  With  a  stride 
he  was  upon  her,  seizing  her  by  her  wrists. 

"Then  how  dare  you  disobey  my  orders — how  dare  you?" 
She  stood  calm,  and  her  voice  was  steady. 

"I  wished  to  see  for  myself  what  sort  of  company  it  is 
which  is  too  good  for  my  presence,  yet  which  comes  at  night 
without  stir  of  carriages  or  servants,  stealthily — even  as  I 
myself  come."  He  gripped  her  till  the  marks  of  his  fingers 
were  left. 

"And  by  what  right  do  you  pry  into  my  affairs — against 
my  express  commands?  What  right,  I  ask,  what  right?" 
Again  she  answered  full  and  strong. 

"By  the  right  of  love,  Francis.  By  the  love  you  swore 
to  me — I  swore  to  you.  Francis,  Francis — "  She  lifted  her 
face  to  him,  its  passionate  darkness  turning  to  soft  tenderness. 
"Tell  me  you  love  me  still — tell  me  there  is  no  other  woman — 
tell  me  that,  Francis — swear  it  to  me."  He  saw  his  chance, 
and  loosening  his  hold,  smiled  down  at  her. 

"I  swear  it,  Hester,  by  our  love.     There  is  no  other  woman." 

"It  is  not  enough."  She  stood  straight  before  him.  "Swear 
again — by  God  in  Heaven — if  there  is  one?"  Far,  far  away, 
his  keen  ear  caught  the  sound  of  wheels.  To  get  her  away — 
out  of  the  house.  He  smiled  again,  humouring  her. 

"By  God  in  Heaven,  Hester,  I  swear." 

"May  I  die  if  it  is  false." 

"Oh,"  impatiently,  "may  I  die  if  it  is  false.''  She  flung  him 
from  her  with  a  cry. 

"False,  false — I  know  all.  She  is  coming  to-night — even 
now.  And  I  may  go  where  I  came  from."  The  far  away 
sound  grew  nearer ;  in  desperation  he  turned  fiercely. 


352  When  Pan  Pipes 


"Yes — it  is  true.  I  love  her — as  I  never  loved  you — as  I 
never  loved  before."  She  flung  up  her  arms  with  a  wild  sor- 
rowful cry. 

"False — false.  False  to  your  love — to  me — to  her.  But 
she  shall  never  be  yours,  Francis.  Never — never — never. 
Take  back  your  oath." 

She  flung  herself  upon  him.  There  was  a  glint  of  steely 
blue — a  thick  choking  sound.  She  stood  upright;  a  smile  of 
fierce  triumph  on  her  face  as  she  watched  him  reel  and  twist, 
then  fall  heavily  to  the  ground.  The  distant  sound  came 
nearer;  nearer  still,  the  echo  of  hurrying  footsteps. 

The  clocks  of  Westminster  were  striking  nine  as  the  two 
men  turned  in  at  the  little  door  in  the  alley.  Silent,  un- 
seen, a  shadow  raised  itself  from  its  lurking  place  beneath 
the  wall.  Behind  them,  through  the  unlocked  door  it  passed, 
slipping  through  dark  passages  into  the  brilliant  hall,  where 
it  slunk  into  a  corner. 

Up  the  gilded  staircase,  along  the  crimson  corridor  they 
hurried,  some  subtle  instinct  telling  of  evil  things  doing. 
Paul  threw  open  the  door  and  burst  in,  then  fell  back  in  utter 
dismay.  Francis  Crewe  lay  on  the  ground;  beside  him  knelt 
a  woman,  weeping  bitterly. 

"My  love — my  love — "  they  heard  her  say.  "Francis,  wake 
— I  did  not  mean  it."  She  lifted  herself  from  him  at  the 
sound  of  the  door  opening,  gazing  passionately  at  the  still 
features,  handsome,  even  in  death;  then  sprang  to  her  feet 
with  a  piercing  cry. 

"He's  dead — dead.  He'll  never  speak  to  me  again."  She 
turned  like  a  fury  to  the  two  men.  "And  it's  you — "  she  cried 
to  Paul,  "you — his  enemy — who  has  caused  this.  He  would 
have  killed  you  had  he  lived.  He  is  dead.  His  work  is  left 
to  me." 

It  was  so  quick,  so  sudden,  that  before  they  realised  it 
she  was  upon  him;  the  little  dagger  gleamed  in  her  lifted 
hand  and  fell — but  Jerry  was  there  first.  Glancing  from 


Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows  353 

Paul's  heart  it  entered  at  the  shoulder,  and  with  a  groan 
he  sank  backwards.  Jerry  caught  him,  undecided  whether 
to  arrest  her  progress  or  attend  to  him.  But  while  he  hesi- 
tated there  came  a  sound  of  wheels  in  the  street  below,  a  quick 
rush  of  footsteps,  Toby's  voice,  another — the  door  flew  open 
and  Betty  sprang  in. 

"Jerry !  oh,  Jerry !"  then  with  a  look  of  unutterable  dismay, 
"Oh,  what  is  it?"  Her  eye  caught  the  prostrate  form  of 
Francis  Crewe;  she  moved  quickly  forward,  then  saw  the 
other,  and  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  threw  herself  upon  him. 

"Paul,  Paul — oh,  my  dearest.  Paul — wake  up.  He's  not 
dead,"  she  turned  wildly,  "Oh,  say  he's  not  dead."  Jerry 
lifted  her  from  him. 

"Betty,  dear,  he's  not  dead — but  you  mustn't  excite  him. 
Toby,"  he  turned  to  the  figure  in  the  doorway,  "run  quickly 
for  a  doctor." 

Toby  turned,  but  a  voice  cold  and  clear  came: 

"Before  you  go  you  had  better  take  what  belongs  to  you." 

For  the  moment  she  had  been  forgotten;  now  all  eyes 
were  turned  to  her.  Betty  lifted  her  frightened  face;  Jerry 
for  the  fraction  of  a  second  ceased  to  stanch  the  wound  in 
Paul's  side;  and  Toby,  his  features  tense  with  emotion,  faced 
her  as  she  stood,  half-veiled  and  with  a  mocking  smile,  hold- 
ing out  a  paper  she  had  taken  from  a  small  steel  box.  Trem- 
bling, falteringly,  he  drew  near,  forgetful  of  all  save  that  small 
thing  which  meant  life.  Seizing  it,  for  one  short  moment  he 
swayed,  then  caught  at  a  piece  of  furniture,  nerving  himself 
to  tear  open  the  fatal  sheet. 

"At  last — at  last,"  they  heard  him  murmur,  "thank  God 
for  freedom."  Quickly  he  stepped  to  the  fireplace,  threw  the 
paper  in,  and  for  a  moment  watched  it  char,  blaze  up,  and  die 
into  ashes.  Then  he  turned  with  a  great  sigh. 

"Jerry,  I'm  free  now  to  go;  I'll  fetch  a  doctor.  But  she 
must  go  unharmed;  she's  saved  me,  I  cannot  hurt  her.  Her 
crime  is  nothing  to  mine.  Let  her  go,  Jerry."  Before  Jerry 


354  When  Pan  Pipes 

could  answer  he  was  gone.  They  heard  his  hurrying  foot- 
steps pass  down  the  stairs  out  into  the  square.  Hester  turned 
to  Betty,  still  with  that  mocking,  cynical  smile. 

"There  are  letters  in  the  box  which  may  concern  Miss 
Betty  Chubbe ;  or — perhaps — "  the  smile  was  worthy  of  Fran- 
cis Crewe,  "the  count  may  find  them  interesting  reading  when 
he  recovers." 

Betty  started  forward  to  where  the  little  box  stood  on  a 
table.  Absorbed  in  her  task  of  collecting  those  fatal  letters 
— how  poor  and  despicable  they  seemed  now — she  took  no 
notice  of  the  other  woman.  Jerry,  watching  his  friend,  doing 
what  he  could  till  Toby  returned,  roused  only  at  the  sound 
of  a  door  closing  softly.  He  looked  up,  then  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"Betty,  take  my  place — quick !  I  don't  understand — I  don't 
know  how  she  came  here,  but  she  mustn't  go  like  that." 

He  was  out  of  the  room  just  in  time  to  see  her  glide  swiftly 
down  the  great  staircase,  a  black  spot  in  the  glaring  bright- 
ness. 

Swift,  like  a  ghost  she  passed — silent,  down  the  red-flecked 
marble  steps.  At  the  bottom,  for  one  brief  second,  she  paused, 
and  lifting  the  veil,  turned  her  scornful  face  with  its  mock- 
ing smile  upward  to  where  he,  too,  paused.  For  one  instant 
tragedy  and  sorrow  peeped  from  behind  the  mask,  then  the 
veil  dropped,  and  she  crossed  the  hall.  But,  intercepting  her, 
with  a  swifter  movement  than  her  own,  from  the  shadow 
which  lay  behind  the  laughing  figure  of  Mirth,  another  shadow 
sprang  into  life.  She  threw  up  her  arms,  her  wild  scream 
rang  out,  but  before  Jerry  could  gain  the  hall,  it  was  upon 
her — black  shadows  mingling.  The  report  of  a  pistol  woke 
the  stillness,  echoes  rushed  from  their  lurking  places,  shad- 
ows stirred  fantastically  on  the  walls.  But  that  other  shadow, 
flinging  its  arms  with  a  familiar  gesture  which  made  the 
watcher  cry  out  at  the  sudden  explanation,  fled  noiselessly 
through  dim,  narrow  passages  to  the  alley  door,  Jerry  after 
him.  Out  into  the  square  it  passed,  crying  as  it  ran : 


Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows  355 

"Vengeance — vengeance  is  mine — mine.  Vengeance  on 
murderers  and  evil-doers — on  harlots  and  adulterers.  Venge- 
ance on  this  great  city  of  Babylon — this  wicked  city,  where  the 
Scarlet  Woman  sits  enthroned.  Destroy  it,  Lord — Lord,  de- 
stroy it.  Send  down  thy  vengeance.  Mine  is  accomplished." 

On  they  flew,  pursuer  and  pursued.  Toby  and  the  doctor, 
entering  the  square,  stood  aghast  at  the  flying  figures ;  panting, 
Jerry  could  only  utter  the  word — "Hurry." 

Through  the  dark  streets,  mingling  with  their  occupants, 
the  ranting  voice  upraised,  its  owner  only  by  some  miracle 
escaping  capture.  On — on — Jerry  hardly  gaining,  so  swift 
was  the  flying  form.  Its  cry  came  back  to  him,  borne  on  the 
night  air — "Vengeance — vengeance,  Lord — mine  is  accom- 
plished." 

Past  the  abbey — with  a  sudden  turn  southward  to  where 
the  river  ran  slow,  sluggishly  gleaming  under  leaden  skies. 
With  a  perception  of  what  was  coming,  Jerry  put  out  almost 
superhuman  strength,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  black  form  was 
on  the  bridge;  for  a  moment  it  paused  and  turned  its  face; 
a  gleam  of  light  from  the  sullen  sky  shone  full  upon  it,  show- 
ing it  ghastly  white  save  where  the  purple  mark  glowed  dully. 
With  a  quick  leap  to  the  parapet  it  flung  its  arms  upwards  in 
wild  gesture,  crying  loudly,  "Vengeance — vengeance,  Lord — 
mine  and  thine." 

A  leap — a  splash  in  the  dark  waters,  and  Simeon  Padden 
sank,  never  to  rise  again. 

Three  days  later,  the  river,  refusing  to  bear  the  burden, 
washed  him  ashore  on  the  low  lying  marshy  land  at  its  mouth. 

Pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  which  gathers  to  an 
event  as  flies  to  a  honey  pot,  Jerry  hurried  back.  The  action 
had  been  so  quick  that  it  wanted  only  a  quarter  to  ten  when 
he  once  more  passed  through  the  door  in  the  alley. 

The  house  was  no  longer  hushed.  On  the  red-flecked  mar- 
ble floor  were  redder  stains  still,  but  the  huddled  mass  of  black 
had  vanished.  She  lay  in  an  upper  room,  the  stormy  passions 
at  rest,  the  scornful  face  composed  and  rigid  in  its  last  sleep. 


356  When  Pan  Pipes 

Downstairs  officials  talked  in  whispers;  a  constable,  taking 
notes,  strode  from  one  to  the  other,  and  an  excited  group 
of  servants,  recalled  by  that  strange  scent  of  something  un- 
usual, crowded  together  in  the  background.  As  Jerry  entered 
there  was  a  sudden  rush  towards  him,  but,  exerting  his 
strength,  he  threw  them  off  and  fled  upwards  to  the  drawing- 
room,  followed  by  the  constable. 

Here,  too,  were  changes.  Someone  had  thrown  a  sheet 
over  the  dead  body,  which  lay  where  it  had  fallen,  and  the 
doctors  stood  by,  gravely  conferring.  Paul  had  been  lifted 
to  a  couch,  and  the  first  doctor  was  stooping  over  him  ad- 
ministering something  in  a  spoon.  Betty,  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch,  watched  with  drawn  face  and  frightened  eyes,  but  she 
made  no  sound.  The  big  bonnet  had  fallen  behind  her  neck, 
and  the  ruddy  hair,  escaping  from  its  pins,  curled  and  twined 
about  her  shoulders.  Toby,  near  her,  was  silent  too.  But  as 
Jerry  entered,  things  stirred;  Betty's  face  changed,  she  flew 
to  him.  He  was  assailed  by  a  storm  of  questions,  only  Toby 
was  silent. 

With  the  mystery  of  Betty's  presence  unexplained  he  stood 
bewildered,  answering  mechanically,  vainly  endeavouring  to 
see  light.  Gradually  the  excitement  subsided;  the  sergeant, 
peeping  through  the  window,  shut  his  note-book  with  a  snap ; 
there  was  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  in  the  square;  they 
stopped,  Paul  was  carried  down,  and  placed  carefully  on  a 
mattress;  Jerry,  drawing  Betty  with  him,  got  in,  while  Toby 
and  the  sergeant  followed  in  a  hackney  coach. 

Without  questioning,  Jerry  directed  the  men  to  Reuben's, 
and  the  little  cavalcade,  surrounded  by  a  curious  crowd,  took 
its  slow  way  homewards.  He  would  have  gone  forward  to 
break  the  news,  but  the  Jew  was  standing  at  the  door,  watch- 
ing anxiously  the  entrance  to  the  square.  He  hurried  out  with 
uplifted  hands. 

"Gott  in  Himmell — what  haf  we  here?" 

They  lifted  the  wounded  man  out  and  carried  him  into 


Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows  357 

Margery's  room,  Reuben  assisting  and  waiting  patiently  for 
explanations.  There  were  others  who  also  waited,  but  it  was 
not  until  long  past  midnight  that  the  doctor  left,  assuring  them 
of  recovery,  and  the  house  regained  some  of  its  usual  restful- 
ness.  Margery,  a  self-constituted  nurse,  was  left,  and  the 
others  returned  to  the  hall,  where  the  Jew  brewed  coffee,  and 
Toby  put  together  a  hasty  meal. 

"And  now  we  will  hear  all,"  cried  Reuben,  with  whom 
childlike  curiosity  was  a  characteristic.  At  the  words,  Betty 
flung  herself  against  Jerry  and  burst,  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Jerry— Jerry— it's  all  my  fault.  Oh— I'm  a  bad- 
wicked  girl — I  shall  never  be  happy  again.  Never — never." 

He  soothed  her  gently,  and  gradually  the  story,  her  part 
of  it,  came  out.  The  three  men  listened,  Jerry  frowning 
angrily,  Reuben  with  troubled  face,  and  Toby  still  silent,  his 
head  bent,  his  features  in  shadow. 

"Jerry,  I  can  never  go  back.  I  could  never  be  seen  in 
Cloudesley  again."  For  a  minute  all  were  quiet.  Reuben 
spoke : 

"Jerry,  mein  yongling,  you  must  start  early  and  post  to 
Cloudesley;  it  will  be  some  hours  before  they  are  anxious, 
and  you  will  perhaps  be  first,  and,  so  there  need  be  no  trou- 
ble— no  shame.  This  yong  maiden  will  go  with  you."  But 
Betty  started  up  and  flew  to  him: 

"No,  no,  oh,  please,  Mr.  Gade,  keep  me  here  a  little  while ; 
I  couldn't  go  yet."  He  smiled  kindly  at  her. 

"Well,  well,  we  will  see ;  you  shall  not  go  if  you  want  not. 
Jerry  shall  make  everything  right."  In  her  quick  impulsive 
way  Betty  threw  her  arms  round  him  and  kissed  him,  win- 
ning the  Jew's  heart  again,  as  she  had  won  it  many  times 
before  in  his  pedlar  days.  "But  there  are  still  many  things 
to  explain,"  said  Reuben,  with  a  glance  towards  the  huddled 
figure. 

"Yes,  many,"  said  Jerry,  sternly.  "Toby,  we  want  an  ex- 
planation." He  raised  his  head.  In  spite  of  the  haggard, 


358  When  Pan  Pipes 

worn  look,  the  thin  face,  there  was  a  look  of  rest,  of  fear 
removed.  He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table,  supporting  his 
cheek  on  his  hand. 

"I  will  tell  you;  I  have  always  wanted  to,  but  the  risk 
was  too  great.  You  would  never  have  betrayed  me,  but  you 
might  have  scorned  me;  and  now — now — "  the  voice  broke 
slightly,  "it  is  harder  than  I  thought  for."  He  paused.  "You 
know  the  beginning,  Jerry,  you  know  who  I  am.  So  does 
Reuben  now,  but  you  don't  know  all.  Long  after  I  left  home 
I  got  into  trouble,  in  London.  I  was  in  service  with  Sir 
Francis  Crewe,  the  late  baronet.  I  owed  five  hundred  pounds 
to  a  money-lender." 

"Five  hundred  pounds!"  repeated  Jerry;  the  sum  seemed 
incredible — a  fortune;  Toby  moved  impatiently. 

"I  know,  I  know;  it  seems  a  fortune.  But  in  those  days 
I  didn't  think  so,  I  was  young  and  reckless — and — "  he  paused 
again,  "it  meant  losing  my  situation — losing  all  the  ground  I 
had  regained,  for — I  meant  to  do  better — to  make  up  for  the 
past.  Sir  Francis  trusted  me,  and  I,"  the  voice  dropped, 
"abused  it,  in  an  evil  moment,  a  moment  of  temptation." 
Again  a  long  silence.  "You  know  now  my  gift  of  imitating 
handwriting — well — "  The  words  came  slowly,  cautiously. 
"Some  devil  tempted  me,  and  I  yielded — I — "  the  air  was  tense 
with  expectation — the  listeners  bent  closer;  the  words  were 
whispered,  yet  clearly  they  came  on  the  stillness,  "I — forged 
his  name."  They  drew  back  with  an  instinctive  glance  round. 
Toby  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  them. 

"Yes,  scorn  me  if  you  like.  Looking  back,  I  scorn  myself, 
my  weakness.  Directly  it  was  done  I  realised  the  danger,  but 
it  was  too  late.  I  believe,  had  I  gone  straight  to  Sir  Francis, 
he  would  have  forgiven  me,  for  he  was  a  kind,  good  master, 
very  different  from — "  he  broke  off.  "While  I  hesitated,  the 
opportunity  passed.  He  died,  as  you  know,  suddenly,  and  his 
son  succeeded.  To  my  relief,  the  forged  cheque  was  hon- 
oured, and  the  new  baronet  told  me  I  could  work  it  off,  though 


Of  Black  Clouds  and  Shadows  359 

he  said,  'Not  in  my  service,  Toby.'  Well,  he  sent  me  away, 
and  Reuben — "  without  thinking,  he  put  out  a  hand,  then 
drew  it  hastily  away,  but  not  before  the  Jew  had  caught  it  in 
a  warm  clasp — "Reuben  took  me,  treated  me  as  you  know, 
and  for  some  years  I  was  happy.  The  cloud  hung  over  my 
head,  it  is  true.  Every  knock,  every  strange  footstep  made 
me  tremble,  but  I  trusted  Sir  Francis,  I  was  full  of  gratitude 
for  his  goodness  as  I  thought.  Then,  this  spring,  I  knew  his 
duplicity,  I  knew  he  only  wanted  me  for  his  own  purposes, 
that  I  might  be  his  tool ;  never,  never,  would  he  set  me  free ; 
the  rope  was  round  my  neck — never  would  he  lift  it  from 
me.  He  used  me ;  I  stole  the  letters.  Jerry — Miss  Chubbe — 
forgive  me.  I  would  have  killed  myself  rather  than  do  it, 
but,  had  I  done  so,  he  would  have  exposed  my  shame  to  the 
world,  and  my  mother — "  he  broke  down  at  last,  holding  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Betty  stole  softly  round. 

"Don't,  don't,"  she  whispered,  drawing  them  away,  "it's 
all  over  now,  and  because  of  you;  for  if  you  hadn't  done 
it,  someone  else  would,  and  then — oh,  then — "  It  was  her 
turn  to  cover  her  face;  Jerry  put  out  his  hand  and  took 
Toby's. 

"Toby,  we  can  never  thank  you  enough.  As  Betty  says, 
suppose  it  had  been  someone  else,  we  should  never  have 
known,  and  that  villain — yes — "  he  rose  hastily,  overturning 
the  chair  in  his  anger,  "yes — I  will  say  it,  though  he's  dead 
— he  was  a  villain — a  bad  man — and  he's  dead,  thank  God 
— and  can  work  no  more  evil.  Toby,  what  you  must  have 
suffered.  But  it's  over  now,  done  with,  and  we  shall  be 
happy  again — doubly  happy,"  he  added,  thinking  of  the  joy- 
ous secret  he  carried  in  his  own  breast. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Reuben  solemnly,  rising  and  standing  be- 
hind the  bowed  figure,  "yes,  it's  over  now.  We  will  start 
fresh."  He  stood  silent,  brooding  with  far-off  gaze.  Betty, 
beside  him,  slipped  an  arm  through  his;  he  patted  the  little 
hand  in  a  fatherly  way,  then  turned  and  looked  down  at  the 


360  When  Pan  Pipes 

beautiful  face,  gentle  now,  with  lines  which  were  not  there 
before.  He  shook  his  head  and  sighed;  then,  as  though 
throwing  his  thoughts  into  the  past,  drew  himself  up. 

"Yes,  we  will  be  happy  again;  but  we  cannot  be  happy 
without  health,  and  we  cannot  have  health  if  we  do  not  sleep. 
So  away  with  you,  Toby,  good  lad,  away,  mein  yongling,  and 
you,  mein  pretty  one,  go  to  your  bed,  and  get  the  beauty 
sleep." 

They  left  him  smoking  and  drinking  coffee  by  the  fire- 
side. Toby  crept  in  to  share  Margery's  watch,  after  send- 
ing Jerry  to  snatch  an  hour's  rest  before  starting,  and  Betty, 
though  begging  hard  to  be  allowed  to  take  her  share,  was 
ordered  to  bed  by  the  household  generally. 

In  the  quiet  of  her  room,  looking  out  to  the  narrow  street, 
she  knelt  down  and  thought  of  the  events  of  the  day.  It 
seemed  months  since  she  left  Cloudesley.  Was  she  the  same 
Betty  Chubbe  who  had  waited  in  the  high  road?  She  rose 
and  peeped  in  the  glass,  and  though  the  features  were  the 
same,  she  knew  that  she  herself  had  changed  from  a  thought- 
less child  to  a  woman,  knowing  good  and  evil,  conscious  of 
a  love  in  her  heart  which  would  last  for  ever;  and  she  threw 
herself  across  the  bed,  sobbing.  For  although  Paul's  letters 
might  have  been  intercepted,  though  the  whole  story  might 
be  false,  there  was  still  the  fact  that  he  had  fought  for  Louise 
da  Silva,  and — the  paper — the  gossip  of  the  town;  ah — sup- 
pose it  was  true — suppose. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN   WHICH   SHADOWS  ARE  SCATTERED  AND  DREAMS  BECOME 
REALITIES 

JERRY  rose  betimes ;  indeed,  sleep  had  been  but  a  name  to 
everyone  in  the  house.  In  spite  of  the  events  of  the  pre- 
vious night,  in  spite  of  Paul  lying  half  unconscious,  in  spite 
of  all,  the  spirit  of  happiness  was  abroad  that  morning.  Toby, 
coming  from  his  room,  wore  an  expression  of  care  removed, 
and  some  of  his  old  cheerfulness  would  out,  for  all  his  en- 
deavours to  look  grave. 

"Jerry,  will  you  take  me  with  you?"  he  said,  then,  with 
a  different  expression,  "as  far,  that  is,  as  Channington.  I 
can't  wait  another  day,  I  must  see  her.  Miss  Chubbe  says 
she  is  just  the  same.  I  told  her,  you  know,"  he  added  shame- 
facedly, then  courageously,  "as  I  shall  tell  everyone;  not  the 
whole" — the  shadow  of  fear  came  back — "no,  not  even  her, 
not  yet  at  least.  Ah,  Jerry,  there's  a  good  time  coming  at 
last.  So,  if  you'll  have  me,  I'll  go  and  get  breakfast  ready." 

And  Jerry  heard  his  song,  silent  so  long,  break  out — 

Too  much  care,  will  make  a  young  ma-an  turn  grey, 
And  too  much  care,  will  turn  an  old  ma-an  to  clay. 
So  begone,  Dull  Care;  I  prithee,  bego-one  from  me, 
Begone,  Dull  Care;  too  long  hast  thou  tarried  with  me. 

He  went  in  to  Paul  before  starting.  The  wound,  Margery 
told  him,  was  slight,  but  the  loss  of  blood  had  been  great, 
owing,  no  doubt,  to  delay  in  fetching  a  doctor,  and  he  was 
very  weak  indeed,  hardly  conscious. 

"But  there's  no  need  to  worrit,  sir.  Doctor  says  he's  to 
be  kept  quiet;  you  go  and  comfort  them  poor  things  at 
Qoudesley;  you  can  come  back  soon." 

361 


362  When  Pan  Pipes 

No  fear  about  that.  The  sittings  had  been  too  long  de- 
ferred as  it  was,  and  with  the  new  hope  in  his  heart  and  all 
obstacles  removed,  he  determined  to  waste  no  time  at  Cloudes- 
ley,  or  anywhere,  till  he  had  seen  her.  Betty  was  left  in 
charge  of  Reuben,  and  though  she  clung  to  Jerry  with  tear- 
ful messages,  and  injunctions  not  to  shield  her  in  any  way, 
she  would  hear  nothing  of  returning  yet. 

"And  if  you're  tired  of  me,  Mr.  Gade,  I'll  get  a  situation 
in  London."  At  which  the  Jew  smiled  down  at  her  and  patted 
the  heaving  shoulders. 

"That  will  never  be  then;  we  shall  not  tire  of  you,  pretty 
maiden."  The  old  house  was  very  quiet  those  two  days. 
Betty  flew  round  and  work  fell  beneath  her  deft  fingers; 
Reuben  shared  Margery's  watch,  but  many  times  he  would 
sigh  and  look  round,  as  though  expecting  Toby's  song  or 
Jerry's  serious  face.  He  came  back  late  next  evening,  Toby 
staying  on  a  few  days  longer,  when  he,  too,  was  to  return  and 
talk  over  the  future  with  Reuben. 

Betty,  shy  when  it  came  to  the  hearing  of  home  news,  kept 
in  the  background  for  a  time,  till  curiosity  prevailed  and  she 
slipped  into  the  chair  by  Jerry's  side.  Things  had  gone  well ; 
the  news  had  not  reached  Cloudesley,  and  the  farmer  and 
his  wife  received  it  with  equanimity,  Jerry  beginning  at  the 
wrong  end  and  coming  to  Betty's  escapade  last.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe  danger  when  it  is  over.  Betty  breathed  a  sigh 
of  relief  and  danced  off  to  prepare  a  meal. 

"And  Paul?"  asked  Jerry  anxiously.  "How  is  he?"  Reu- 
ben knitted  his  brows  thoughtfully. 

"He  is  going  well — yes — quite  well;  but  he  is  not  himself, 
he  talks  wildly,  and — "  he  glanced  round  the  room  to  assure 
himself  that  they  were  alone,  "he  will  talk  always  of  Miss 
Betty — and  not  kindly.  He  seems  to  know  she  is  here.  Sick 
folk  have  strange  intuition,  and  he  says  always,  'Send  her 
away — send  her  away — she  does  not  love  me,'  and  then  with 
moch  sorrow,  'Ah,  Betty,  Betty,  you've  killed  me.'  Ach,  it 
is  sad,  but  we  will  hope  it  will  kom  right.  Yet,"  he  frowned 


Dreams  Become  Realities  363 

thoughtfully,  "if  she  would  go  for  a  while,  if  there  was  some- 
one to  go  to — " 

Betty  solved  the  difficulty  herself.  The  last  sitting  but 
one  was  on  the  following  morning,  and  Jerry  dressed  as  he 
had  dressed  that  first  morning,  with  trembling  fingers  and 
sick  feeling  at  his  heart — not  this  time  with  fear  of  failure, 
rather  with  the  weight  of  overmuch  happiness.  For  he  knew 
she  loved  him  even  as  he  loved  her,  and  neither  convent 
walls  nor  her  father's  wrath,  nor  anything  in  Heaven  or 
earth,  could  alter  that.  He  could  have  sung  with  Toby  that 
morning,  for  dull  care  was  gone,  the  black  cloud  had  lifted, 
the  shadows  had  fled.  Betty  knocked  at  his  door  as  he  was 
coming  out ;  her  face  was  tear-stained,  and  she  pushed  him  in, 
following  after. 

"Jerry,"  she  whispered  with  a  sob,  "Paul  doesn't  want  me ; 
he  doesn't  know  me,  and — and — I  want  to  go  away — to-day 
— now."  He  stared  at  her,  whistling  softly  in  perplexity. 

"There's  Cloudesley,  Betty."     She  stamped  her  foot  angrily. 

"I  won't  go  to  Cloudesley;  I  won't — I  won't." 

"Well,  then,"  continued  Jerry,  still  more  puzzled,  "where 
can  you  go?"  She  wiped  her  eyes,  then,  twisting  her  hand- 
kerchief nervously,  looked  up  into  his  face: 

"Jerry,  you'll  see  Lady  Mary  to-day,  won't  you?"  He 
nodded. 

"Couldn't  you — you  know  her  so  well — don't  you?" 

"Y-yes,  pretty  well."    Her  voice  grew  eager. 

"Jerry,  ask  her,  will  you,  to  let  me  come  to  her,  to  be  her 
maid  for  a  time  ?  She  will,  I'm  sure."  He  was  silent ;  Betty 
watched  his  face  with  pleading  eyes.  "Do,  Jerry,  do  ask 
her."  He  had  not  hesitated  from  disinclination;  Betty  had 
always  been  a  bond  between  them,  the  favour  asked  would 
draw  it  closer.  He  smiled  down  into  the  lovely  expressive 
face.  Betty  gave  him  a  hug  and  sighed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"And  directly  Paul  is  well  enough,  you'll  let  me  come 
back,  Jerry.  Margery  says  'perhaps' — but  you'll  make  her, 
won't  you?" 


364  When  Pan  Pipes 

A  thousand  new  feelings  possessed  him  as  he  neared  the 
house  at  Chelsea.  The  events  of  the  past  weeks  were  upper- 
most, and  he  could  have  laughed  aloud  from  sheer  light- 
heartedness.  Only  a  short  time  more  and  he  would  throw 
away  the  swineherd's  disguise  and  stand  revealed,  a  prince 
offering  homage  to  a  princess.  But  patience — patience.  As 
a  swineherd  he  had  loved  her — as  a  swineherd  she  must 
love  him;  not  for  rank  nor  money,  but  for  himself,  and  his 
heart  sank,  for  he  knew  that  in  her  eyes  he  was  but  a  swine- 
herd. 

The  work  was  nearly  accomplished;  one  more  day  of  hap- 
piness, and  then — darkness  perhaps,  or — he  hardly  dared 
glance  at  the  other  side;  such  glorious  joy,  it  seemed,  could 
not  be  for  mortals. 

She  greeted  him  as  usual ;  but  during  the  morning  he  caught 
her  watching  him  with  a  wondering  look,  and  knew  that 
already  his  secret  must  have  given  him  a  different  air.  A 
curious  coincidence  occurred,  paving  the  way  for  Betty's  re- 
quest. Towards  the  close  of  the  sitting  the  governess  rose 
and  left  the  room.  Mary  explained. 

"She  is  so  good;  my  maid  was  taken  ill  suddenly  yester- 
day, and  until  we  get  another,  Miss  Gilbert  insists  on  doing 
everything  for  me — she  is  kindness  itself." 

Here  was  Jerry's  chance.  He  poured  out  the  tale,  toning 
down  Betty's  flight  to  a  sudden  impulse  to  see  London  and 
himself.  To  one  more  experienced  the  tale  might  have  seemed 
lame.  Mary  saw  no  flaw  and  clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

"How  charming!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Mr.  Dell,  tell  her  to 
come  to  me  at  once — this  afternoon.  I  will  send  a  carriage 
for  her."  And  the  governess's  acquiescence  being  obtained, 
Betty  became  an  inmate  of  the  earl's  house. 

Count  de  Cosse  had  been  sent  for  by  Jerry,  but  several 
days  would  elapse  before  he  could  arrive.  Paul,  in  the  mean- 
while, went  on  to  recovery.  It  was  the  day  after  Betty's 
departure  that  consciousness  returned;  with  it  came  memory 
and  questions.  In  spite  of  Margery's  admonitions  Jerry  an- 


Dreams  Become  Realities  365 

swered  them,  knowing  that  until  he  did  so  Paul  would  have 
no  rest. 

"I  had  such  a  strange  fancy,  Jerry,"  he  said  dreamily, 
"just  before  I  lost  my  senses;  it  seemed  that  Betty  came  to 
me  and — kissed  me.  I  suppose  it's  because,  in  spite  of  all, 
I  think  of  her  always.  I  cannot  put  her  from  me."  He 
turned  his  head  quickly.  "Did  I  dream  that  he  was  dead, 
Jerry?"  The  listener  shook  his  head. 

"No.     He  was  wounded — by  the  same  woman." 

"Not  dead,  then.  Ah,"  he  sighed  deeply,  "I  thought,  per- 
haps— not  that  it  could  make  any  difference — she  gave  her 
love  to  him ;  it  could  never  be  mine.  Well,  I  have  my  father 
still,  and  you,  dear  old  fellow." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  smiling,  and  Jerry  took  it  in  his 
with  a  gentle  grasp,  while  he  turned  things  over  in  his  mind. 
Betty  must  stay  away  a  few  days  longer,  then  he  laughed 
to  himself  as  he  thought  of  the  joy  of  reconciliation,  the 
future  which  was  opening  like  a  brilliant  rose  for  Paul  and 
himself. 

But  when  the  end  came — when  for  the  last  time  he  entered 
Mary's  room,  which  now  looked  out  on  dreary,  rainsodden 
lawns,  leafless  trees  and  flowerless  beds,  his  heart  sank. 
There  was  no  dream-like  atmosphere  now;  the  governess 
crocheted  an  antimacassar  of  a  wonderful  fine  pattern,  the  fire 
burned  cheerfully  and  life  was  full  of  practical  everyday  mat- 
ters. Only  their  hearts  dreamed  still.  The  earl  came  in  dur- 
ing the  sitting. 

"It  is  creditable  work,  Mr.  Dell,  for  one  so  young;  you 
have  a  future,  no  doubt,  and  will  go  far.  I  shall  hope  to 
see  more  of  you;  my  sisters,  too,  will  be  pleased  if,  when 
you  are  at  Cloudesley,  you  will  call  and  see  them."  He  shook 
hands  with  stately  cordiality  and  departed. 

The  last  moments  were  flying  by,  the  tale  was  still  untold. 
Jerry  sent  up  a  prayer  from  his  heart,  and  something  told  him 
that  she  too  was  doing  the  same.  A  few  minutes'  silence, 
and  it  was  answered.  A  servant  at  the  door  summoned  the 


366  When  Pan  Pipes 

governess.    No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  than  he  flung  down 
his  tools  and  was  by  her. 

"My  lady,  my  lady — is  it  good-bye?"  She  looked  up  be- 
seechingly, the  blue  eyes  beneath  their  tears,  like  violets  in 
a  deep  pool.  "You  can  but  kill  me — "  he  whispered,  and  he 
caught  her  hands.  "You  can  but  call  and  have  me  put  out, 
but  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  must  listen.  I  love  you,  Mary, 
I  love  you — I've  loved  you  always — I  shall  love  you  for 
eternity;  you  are  rich — and  a  lady — and  I — "  he  stopped — 
remembering,  and  she,  thinking  he  spoke  of  poverty,  crept 
closer.  It  was  enough.  With  a  muffled  shout  of  ecstasy  he 
caught  her  to  him.  She  gave  a  low,  sweet  laugh  of  utter 
content  and  nestled  near  his  heart.  Lifting  her  to  him  he 
bent  and  kissed  the  lovely  face,  dawn-like  in  its  rosy  purity. 

"Not  good-bye,"  he  whispered  joyfully,  "only  'God  be  with 
you,  my  darling,  till  we  meet  again.'  Mary — will  you  meet 
me  ?  Will  you  wait  in  the  garden  to-night  ?  Would  you  dare, 
beloved?"  There  was  perfect  trust  in  the  sweet  face  as  she 
raised  it  from  his  embrace. 

"I  would  dare  anything  for  you,  Jerry,"  adding  softly, 
"even  my  father's  anger." 

"Then  to-night,  at  midnight,  in  the  oak  glade,"  he  whis- 
pered hurriedly,  for  a  footstep  sounded  outside. 

"Go — go — "  she  pushed  him  from  her.  "Betty  will  help." 
Betty,  of  course.  Why,  the  fates  were  working  for  him,  and 
when  the  governess  returned  she  heard  the  end  of  a  conversa- 
tion of  which  Mary's  new  maid  was  the  subject.  He  left 
the  house  with  wing-shod  feet.  Oh,  but  the  dull  November 
skies  were  blue  and  laughing,  the  red  sun  shone  through  white 
mists,  a  fire  matching  the  fire  in  his  heart,  the  leafless  trees, 
the  flowerless  beds,  were  only  waiting  the  call  of  love  to  leap 
to  life  and  beauty. 

She  watched  him  go,  then  stood  for  a  moment  as  one 
would  stand  if  suddenly  transported  to  a  new  world;  won- 
dering— almost  afraid  to  explore.  The  governess  put  things 
tidy,  then  went,  telling  her  pupil  to  follow.  Mary  crossed  the 


Dreams  Become  Realities  367 

room  as  in  a  dream ;  things  about  her  took  on  a  fresh  aspect — 
the  aspect  of  things  in  new  surroundings ;  it  seemed  they  were 
watching — sympathising  silently  as  friends.  She  passed  into 
the  great  hall,  mechanically  making  her  way  to  the  staircase. 
The  light  from  a  window  fell  on  her  upturned  face ;  the  chap- 
lain, advancing  towards  her,  stopped  abruptly,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  He  gazed  into  her  eyes  with  that 
piercing  look  which  seemed  to  read  her  inmost  thoughts,  and 
consciousness  returned.  She  blushed  crimson  and  dropped 
her  eyelids. 

"My  daughter,  you  are  happy?"     She  lifted  her  face  shyly. 

"Yes,  Father."     Under  the  keen  glance  she  grew  timid. 

"Such  is  the  happiness  which  Mother  Church  gives  to  her 
children."  He  raised  his  hands  and  placed  them  on  her  head. 
"Bless  you,  my  daughter."  She  bent  in  obeisance,  then  hur- 
riedly sought  her  room,  and  sinking  into  a  chair,  let  her  gaze 
wander  over  the  fair  landscape  of  dreams,  where  already  a 
castle  was  building,  whose  foundations  had  been  laid  one 
sunny  morning  in  June.  Father  Francis'  gaze  followed  the 
girlish  figure;  there  was  a  little  frown,  a  slightly  puzzled  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  As  she  vanished  through  an  arched 
doorway  he  turned  towards  the  back  of  the  house  where, 
among  servants'  quarters,  looking  out  to  stables  and  outhouses, 
my  lord  had  his  private  room. 

He  was  sitting  idle,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand.  A  mass 
of  papers  and  account  books  strewed  the  table,  the  great 
bureau  was  rolled  open,  and  everywhere  was  evidence  of 
business  matters,  save  only  in  my  lord's  listless  attitude.  He 
raised  his  head  as  the  door  opened,  and  with  a  weary  gesture 
swept  some  of  the  litter  away. 

"Come  in,  Father — sit  down."  He  rose  and  drew  a  chair 
forward.  The  priest  waved  it  aside,  waiting  silently. 

"I  sent  for  you,  Father,  there  are  matters  concerning  my 
daughter,"  he  paused,  "I  should  say — concerning  her  entry 
into  the  Church — matters — "  again  he  paused.  Father  Fran- 
cis waited  a  moment,  then  threw  in  a  word. 


368  When  Pan  Pipes 

"The  time  is  growing  short,  my  son." 

"Yes."  He  was  silent  again,  looking  through  the  window 
with  a  far-away  expression,  idly  twisting  a  paper  weight. 
The  priest  watched  keenly. 

"As  you  say,  the  time  is  growing  short — too  short,"  he  mur- 
mured under  his  breath.  The  listener's  quick  ear  caught  the 
words,  an  expression  of  alertness  passed  across  his  face. 

"Too  short,"  repeated  the  earl  dreamily;  then  suddenly 
rousing,  he  turned  and  pushed  the  toy  away.  "Father,  does 
our  Church  realise  the  strength  of  natural  affections?  How 
close  the  ties,  which,  once  made,  can  never  be  broken?" 

"Our  Church  recognises  in  the  resignation  of  natural  affec- 
tions the  purest  offering  of  her  children;  self-renunciation,  the 
brightest  jewel  in  her  crown.  As  you  say,  the  natural  affec- 
tions are  as  steel  links  in  the  chain  of  life,  only  by  constant 
self-denial,  by  prayer,  by  fasting,  can  they  be  dissolved." 

The  earl  sat  silent  again;  the  priest's  keen  glance  seemed 
to  read  every  passing  thought.  Presently  he  spoke — hesi- 
tatingly— and  only  one  versed  in  the  lore  of  humanity  could 
have  recognised  the  stern,  cold  personality  of  Edward,  Earl 
of  Cloudesley. 

"Father,  I  have  known  Mary  for  nineteen  years  as  the 
daughter  of  the  woman  who  wrecked  my  life's  hopes;  since 
she  came  here  I  have  known  her  as  my  daughter — and — 
as  such — she  has  crept  into  my  heart — day  by  day  forging 
fresh  fetters  of — yes — of  love." 

"You  should  have  destroyed  them — at  once — "  interrupted 
the  priest  sternly,  "plucked  them  from  your  heart,  at  whatever 
cost." 

"The  flesh  is  weak,  Father,"  was  the  humble  reply.  "And 
so  subtle  is  temptation  that  the  seed  has  grown  to  a  tree  be- 
fore one  realises  that  it  was  sown." 

"True,  my  son ;  yet  even  a  tree  can  be  uprooted." 

"Nay,  Father,  not  uprooted,  only  cut  down;  the  roots  have 
pushed  their  way  so  deeply  into  life  that  they  are  there  as 
long  as  life  endures."  The  priest  rose — his  tall,  forbidding 


Dreams  Become  Realities  369 

figure  hovering  like  an  ominous  shadow;  he  lifted  his  hands 
as  though  to  thrust  something  away;  the  earl  shrank  as  from 
a  blow. 

"If  the  seed  has  become  a  tree,  my  son,  then  cut  it  down — 
tear  it  from  your  heart — uproot  every  shoot;  think  of  her  as 
saved  from  earthly  temptation — from  the  world — the  flesh. 
Think  of  her  in  that  garden  of  happiness,  as  an  angel,  happy 
in  her  innocence,  in  the  charge  of  our  dear  lady  and  the 
blessed  saints.  And — "  he  came  a  step  nearer,  the  clear, 
resonant  voice  grew  soft  and  dreamily  tender,  "in  such 
thoughts,  those  roots  of  natural  affection  will  grow  and  blos- 
som into  sweet  remembrance  and  a  love  above  the  love  of  the 
world."  There  was  a  long,  long  silence.  At  last  my  lord 
lifted  his  face;  the  features,  noble,  honourable,  stern,  bore 
marks  of  an  inward  struggle. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  then  bowed  his  head  again.  "For- 
give me,  Father."  The  priest  stretched  out  his  hands  in  si- 
lent blessing.  And  when  the  earl  raised  himself,  he  was,  as 
usual,  cold,  courteous,  every  emotion  masked.  He  moved  to 
his  chair  again,  and  the  priest  spoke. 

"I  will  make  arrangements  for  the  ceremony;  Mary  can  go 
back  to  the  convent  at  once." 

"No,"  interrupted  the  earl,  "I  have  promised  the  Reverend 
Mother  that  she  should  have  a  year  in  the  world;  I  cannot 
go  back  from  my  word."  The  priest  waved  his  hand  airily. 

"That,  my  son,  can  be  easily  remedied.  Mother  Monica 
will  understand,  and  be  the  first  to  acquiesce."  My  lord 
shook  his  head. 

"No— my  word  is  given — nothing  shall  alter  my  decision. 
But  Mary  shall  go  to  Cloudesley,  to  her  aunts.  I  will  not 
see  her  till  I  say  good-bye  on  Christmas  Day;  she  goes  the 
following  morning."  Father  Francis  inclined  his  head;  there 
were  limits  even  to  his  authority.  "I  will  write  to  my  sisters 
at  once;  she  shall  go  within  the  week."  The  priest  rose. 

"My  son,  you  have  done  well.  Meanwhile,  see  the  child  as 
little  as  possible,  keep  to  your  own  apartments." 


370  When  Pan  Pipes 

He  left  the  room,  and  the  earl  drew  paper  and  ink  towards 
him,  rang  for  his  steward,  and  entered  on  a  day  of  business 
matters,  burying  that  other  beneath  everyday  affairs.  Yet,  in 
the  quiet  night  watches  a  vision  thrust  itself  before  him, 
banishing  sleep ;  a  lovely  vision,  of  home  and  love,  and  earthly 
ties;  of  fair  daughters  and  noble  sons,  of  loved  sisters  and 
trusted  friends,  and  ever  through  the  silence  came  the  patter 
of  tiny  feet,  the  merry  sounds  of  childish  voices. 

It  was  the  governess  who  told  her,  and  even  in  the  anguish 
of  listening  to  the  sentence,  Mary  was  grateful  that  it  was 
not  Father  Francis.  Well  she  knew  that  in  her  face  he  would 
read  her  secret — the  secret  which  she  hardly  dared  breathe 
to  her  own  soul — not  even  to  Betty  could  she  speak  of  it, 
and  yet  Betty  must  be  told. 

Pleading  a  headache,  a  real  one,  she  went  to  her  room  and 
waited  till  the  house  was  sunk  in  silence.  Then,  calling  Betty, 
she  wrapped  herself  in  a  dark  cloak ;  while  doing  so,  she  man- 
aged to  tell  something  of  the  story,  and  the  listener,  with  wide 
open  eyes,  filled  in  gaps,  finally  asking  for  names.  Mary 
turned  her  blushing  face  away. 

"You  shall  go  first,  Betty,"  she  whispered,  "and  then  you'll 
see." 

The  adventure  was  mightily  to  Miss  Betty's  taste;  she 
donned  another  black  cloak,  and  the  two  girls  slipped  noise- 
lessly from  the  room,  locking  the  door  behind  them.  Breath- 
lessly they  crept  down  a  back  staircase  into  the  work-room, 
where  the  marble  bust  seemed  to  follow  with  its  eyes,  won- 
dering what  its  sister  was  doing  so  late.  Opening  the  long 
window  they  stepped  into  the  damp,  dark  night.  Mary 
stopped  and  drew  her  hand  from  the  other's  warm  clasp. 

"Go,  Betty,"  she  whispered,  "down  the  oak  glade;  tell  him 
I'm  coming." 

Betty's  light  feet  made  no  sound  as  she  tripped  away  and 
was  lost  in  the  blackness.  The  charm  of  adventure  was  upon 
her,  and  she  laughed  gaily  as  she  bumped  against  a  low  gate, 
and  knew  it  for  the  entrance  to  the  grove. 


Dreams  Become  Realities  371 

A  rustle  in  the  trees  and  a  form  came  towards  her;  in  the 
darkness  she  could  distinguish  nothing  till  he  was  upon  her. 
His  arms  were  round  her,  yet  as  she  lifted  her  face,  came 
mutual  recognition,  and  she  fell  back. 

"Jerry,  you — you!  I  thought — "  and  then  suddenly  the 
whole  truth  burst  upon  her,  and  she-stepped  near  again.  "Oh, 
Jerry,  how  could  you,  how  could  you?"  she  cried  under  her 
breath  in  indignant  surprise.  "How  dare  you?  You — a  poor 
boy — and  my  lady — " 

"I  know,  Betty,  I  know;  but  where  is  she?  Couldn't  she 
come?  Oh,  tell  me — tell  me." 

"She's  coming.  But  Jerry — how's  it  going  to  end?  You 
can't  marry  a  lady.'* 

"Can't  I,  Betty?  But  I  can,  and  I  will.  And  I'll  work 
for  her — work — till  she  has  everything  she  has  given  up  for 
me.  For  Betty — listen — she  loves  me — me — loves  me — just 
as  I  am — for  myself.  Betty,  Betty — it's  Heaven  on  earth— 
it's — it's — "  his  voice  trailed  away  in  rapture,  and  Betty  stood 
transfixed.  A  little  hand  touched  hers  softly;  she  started, 
and  Jerry  turned.  With  a  muffled  cry  he  caught  the  black 
figure  in  his  arms,  and  Betty  moved  away,  half  frightened, 
half  elated  at  the  new  state  of  things. 

And  there,  in  the  misty  autumn  wood,  with  spectral  trees 
around,  and  the  dead  leaves  of  summer  beneath  their  feet, 
safe  in  the  shelter  of  his  arms,  she  listened  to  his  tale  of  love, 
then  sobbed  out  her  news.  He  heard  it  to  the  end,  but 
long  before  had  made  up  his  mind ;  Betty  had  supplied  the  cue. 

"I  can't  go,  Jerry — oh,  I  can't  leave  you."  The  soft  cheek, 
tear  wet,  against  his  own,  gave  him  courage. 

"When,  beloved?"  he  whispered. 

"This  week — perhaps  in  three  days.  Directly  my  aunts 
write.  Ah,  Jerry,  save  me.  I  am  wicked — but  I  can't — oh, 
I  can't  go  back  to  the  convent." 

He  held  her  close — silently;  then  lifted  her  till  her  head 
rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  ear  was  so  near  that  she 
could  catch  the  lowest  whisper. 


372  When  Pan  Pipes 

"Mary,  are  you  brave?    What  will  you  dare — to  escape?" 

"All."    The  answer  was  clear. 

"Dearest — there  is  a  way — one  way — it  leads  to  happiness. 
Will  you  brave  it?" 

"With  you,  Jerry — yes."  He  was  silent  again;  her  sobs 
ceased,  and  she  lay  quiet,  waiting  for  his  next  words. 

"Mary — "  the  words  were  breathed,  not  spoken,  "will  you 
— oh,  my  darling,  it's  asking  so  much — "  he  faltered — the  lit- 
tle head  crept,  if  possible,  closer. 

"Jerry — I — I — love  you — I  can't  go." 

"Then — will  you  marry  me?"  She  turned  her  white  face 
towards  him;  even  in  the  darkness  he  could  see  her  eyes 
shining  like  amethysts  in  a  setting  of  pearl.  Her  heart  beat 
so  close  to  his  that  they  seemed  one,  and  the  low  murmured 
answer  rang  in  his  ears  like  a  silver  trumpet: 

"Yes,  Jerry."  Their  lips  met  in  silent  rapture;  all  around 
the  dead  trees  whispered  their  song  of  hope,  of  love  awaking, 
of  life.  But  a  rustle  in  the  dead  undergrowth  told  of  Betty, 
and  Jerry  roused  to  practical  things. 

"The  time  is  short,  beloved.  I  will  get  all  ready  to-morrow. 
Will  you  dare  to  meet  me  the  following  morning?  Betty  will 
help  you."  She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  Betty,  Jerry.  I  couldn't  live  with  her  and  know  she 
held  my  secret.  I  love  her  too  well  to  let  her  share  my  fa- 
ther's anger.  I  will  come  alone." 

His  heart  was  too  full  for  words;  her  courage,  her  simple 
faith,  stirred  his  very  soul.  But  he  had  enough  worldly  ex- 
perience to  know  that  others  might  not  have  equal  belief  in 
him.  Suddenly  he  thought. 

"Mary,  would  you  mind  my  old  nurse — Margery — she'll 
keep  our  secret,  and  she  loves  me." 

"Yes,  yes — "  came  the  happy  whisper;  "tell  her,  Jerry,  and 
bring  her  with  you."  A  few  more  practical  details,  a  last 
long  embrace,  a  promise  to  meet  again  on  the  following  night, 
and  Betty  was  summoned  from  her  lurking  place.  The  two 
girls  made  their  way  homewards,  silent,  one  from  happiness, 


Dreams  Become  Realities  373 

the  other  sobered  by  remembrance  of  her  own  escapade,  and 
filled  with  doubts. 

Jerry  went  home  on  wings,  snatched  a  few  hours'  rest — 
joy  had  banished  sleep — and  rose  with  the  consciousness  of 
much  to  do.  There  was  Margery  to  tell,  a  licence  to  procure 
— to  find  a  priest,  a  church,  and  above  all,  a  golden  ring  with 
which  to  bind  her  to  him  for  ever  and  ever. 

Margery  listened  with  smiling  face,  into  which  had  returned 
all  the  sunny  cheerfulness  of  old,  and  nodding  approval,  put 
on  her  bonnet  to  accompany  him,  also  to  purchase  new  finery 
for  such  a  day.  Reuben  was  left  with  Paul.  That  same 
evening  came  a  letter  from  the  north;  a  letter  which,  in  its 
lonely  yearning,  sent  a  pang  through  Jerry's  heart.  In  his 
great  happiness,  the  old  man  who  loved  him  so  well  had  been 
for  the  time  almost  forgotten. 

"In  ten  days,  grandson,  is  your  birthday,"  it  ran.  "I  am 
counting  the  hours  to  seeing  you,  and  all  things  are  in  readi- 
ness for  your  reception.  I  pray  God  my  heart  may  not  break 
with  joy;  but  they  say  happiness  never  kills,  only  sorrow, 
and  I  have  lived  through  many  years  of  bitterness.  So,  grand- 
son, start  at  once  and  come  to  your  loving  grandfather." 

Jerry  sat  thoughtful.  Till  Mary  was  out  of  London  he 
could  not  go;  the  birthday  must  wait,  if  needs  be.  He  put 
it  away  for  the  present — there  were  other  matters  more  urgent 
— one  especially  which  was  troubling  him.  Paul  was  slowly 
recovering;  the  count,  hurrying  home,  would  arrive  in  Lon- 
don that  night  or  the  following  morning,  and  Jerry  wondered 
how  much  happiness  was  allowable  under  the  circumstances. 
His  grandfather's  words  seemed  to  come  as  an  answer — 
"They  say  happiness  never  kills — only  sorrow."  He  folded 
the  letter  and  went  upstairs.  Paul  was  lying  quiet,  and  the 
intense  sadness  of  his  expression  struck  his  friend  anew.  He 
turned,  his  face  lit  with  a  wan  smile.  Jerry  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"You're  better,  Paul,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes."    There  was  no  hopefulness  in  the  tone. 


374*  When  Pan  Pipes 

"That's  good.  We'll  have  you  downstairs  in  no  time  now. 
Did  you  know  that  your  father  may  be  here  soon,  to-night, 
perhaps?"  He  nodded. 

"My  dear  father,  I'm  afraid  he'll  feel  it  badly ;  he's  no  one 
but  me.  And — now — "  he  added  softly,  "I've  no  one  but  him. 
But  for  that — and  one  other  hope — I  could  wish  for  death." 
Jerry  laughed  lightly. 

"Death!  Nonsense,  Paul.  You're  weak  and  ill;  why 
should  you  wish  for  death?  You're  young — you've  money, 
position,  everything  that  makes  happiness.  Cheer  up,  old  fel- 
low, you'll  be  well  soon,  and  laugh  at  these  gloomy  fancies." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "No,  Jerry,  happiness  is  not  for 
me;  you  know  now — I  thought  you  knew  before — while  he 
lives  there  is  only  sorrow  for  me.  I  thought — I  hoped — she 
loved  me.  That's  over — a  dream — but  with  it  goes  my  life." 
Jerry  sat  silent,  wondering  how  to  tell  him. 

"Paul,"  he  said  at  length,  "what  if  you  were  mistaken? 
What  if— she— loved  you— still?" 

He  laughed  bitterly.  "Loved  me,  Jerry?  No — she  never 
gave  me  any  encouragement — not  from  the  first;  and  her  let- 
ters— what  few  there  were — were  cold — distant.  And  that 
last  one!  Jerry,  may  you  never  know  the  anguish  of  losing 
all  you  love.  No — she  loved  him — has  married  him,  no  doubt. 
My  mission  is  to  watch,  some  day  she'll  find  the  need  of  me, 
and  come.  But  love — no." 

"But  what  if  he — were — dead?  What  if  those  letters  were 
not  from  her — if  she  knew  nothing  of  them?  Suppose  her 
own  were  stolen  on  the  way." 

He  was  frightened  at  the  effect  of  his  words.  Every 
vestige  of  colour  left  Paul's  face,  leaving  it  drawn  and  white. 
He  raised  himself  and  spoke,  and  his  words  came  thick  and 
slow. 

"Jerry — take  care.  Don't  give  me — hope — only  to — take  it 
away."  He  put  him  back  on  the  pillows  with  hands  that  trem- 
bled. 


Dreams  Become  Realities  375 

"Paul,  it  is  true ;  I  told  you  a  lie ;  believe  me,  it  was  only 
for  your  good.  She  is  free — she  loves  you — has  always  loved 
you.  Can  you  bear  it?" 

"Bear  it!  Oh,  my  God — my  God!"  The  words  burst  out 
like  life  blood  from  a  wounded  heart.  For  a  moment  there 
was  silence,  then  the  colour  came  back  into  his  face,  and  with 
it,  a  smile.  "Where  is  she,  Jerry?  Let  me  see  her,  let  me 
hear  it  from  her  own  lips." 

"I'll  fetch  her,  Paul;  lie  down  and  wait  patiently.  She 
is  with  Lady  Mary." 

He  lay  back  obediently,  wondering  weakly.  Jerry  hurried 
away,  and  calling  a  coach,  despatched  it  with  a  messenger  and 
a  letter  to  Betty,  then  back  again  to  wait  for  his  friend. 

Never  had  the  hours  seemed  so  long.  Many  a  time  did  he 
repent  of  having  told  too  soon.  Paul's  restlessness  grew  every 
minute;  his  eyes  were  brilliant  as  though  with  fever,  a  crim- 
son spot  burned  on  each  cheek.  He  insisted  upon  sitting  up, 
called  for  a  mirror  and  groaned  at  his  uncouth  appearance, 
finally  sending  for  a  barber  to  shave  him.  In  desperation 
Jerry  gave  way;  it  helped  to  pass  the  time.  But  when  at 
length  came  the  rattle  of  wheels  on  the  cobbles  outside,  Paul 
turned  deadly  white  and  leaned  back,  though  waving  him 
away. 

"I'm  all  right— go— send  her." 

"You'll  be  careful,  Paul,  won't  you?"  he  said  anxiously, 
intending  to  warn  Betty.  But  there  was  no  time — the  quick 
footsteps  were  on  the  stair,  along  the  passage.  For  a  mo- 
ment they  paused,  then  the  door  opened  softly.  Paul  sat  for- 
ward, his  lips  trembling.  It  opened  further,  and  she  stood 
hesitating  on  the  threshold,  rosy  red,  with  an  expression  of 
tender  love  new  to  Jerry. 

"Betty!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  weak  and  gentle,  she  started, 
took  a  step  forward,  glanced  at  Jerry,  who  slipped  behind 
her,  then,  with  a  low  sobbing  cry,  ran  across  the  room  and 


376  When  Pan  Pipes 

fell  on  her  knees  by  the  chair,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 
He  saw  him  raise  her  with  the  sound  arm,  he  heard  her 
murmured  words — "Forgive  me — oh,  Paul — forgive  me,"  a 
quick  glimpse  of  ruddy  gold  hair  against  a  dark  cheek,  and  he 
closed  the  door  softly. 

Downstairs  he  told  his  tale,  warning  off  all  intruders,  and 
when  Margery,  some  two  hours  later,  went  in,  she  returned, 
nodding  cheerily,  "He'll  do  now,"  she  said. 

Jerry  took  her  back  that  evening — a  laughing  brilliant 
Betty;  provoking,  teasing,  yet  with  a  new  something  which 
made  her  infinitely  more  lovable,  more  winsome — even  Jerry, 
absorbed  in  his  own  affairs,  felt  the  attraction. 

"He's  coming  back  to  Cloudesley,  Jerry,"  she  said,  dimpling 
and  flushing.  "Perhaps  with  us,  if  he's  well  enough.  You 
know  we're  going  to  the  Dower  House  soon — and  I  don't 
mind  one  bit  now."  Things  seemed  indeed  to  be  taking  on  a 
new  lease  of  happiness.  That  evening  saw  every  detail  set- 
tled for  the  morrow. 

He  woke  early,  dressed  himself,  wearing  the  fob  chain 
which  Toby,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  had  besought  him  to 
accept  for  luck,  and  went  to  the  meeting  place,  where  he 
waited  rather  than  at  home.  In  the  porch  of  the  little  chapel, 
new,  crudely  coloured,  devoid  of  all  romance,  she  met  him; 
but  she  brought  romance  with  her,  and  the  figures  in  their 
shrines,  even  the  dear  Mother  herself,  smiled  down,  as  he 
led  her  to  the  altar,  and  with  only  the  old  nurse  and  a  sleepy 
pew  opener  for  witnesses  they  plighted  their  troth  before  God 
and  the  holy  angels  for  ever  and  ever. 

He  took  her  away,  Margery  returning  discreetly  alone ;  and 
London,  dirty,  foggy,  sulky  London,  gleamed  rosy  through  a 
mist  of  love  and  happiness.  She  told  him  that,  on  the  morrow, 
they  would  go  to  Cloudesley,  and  he  broke  the  news  of  his 
journey  to  the  north ;  but  of  the  reason,  he  said  nothing.  One 
day  he  would  fetch  her,  with  pomp  and  ceremony,  with  prancing 
horses  and  a  fairy  carriage. 


Dreams  Become  Realities  377 

"You'll  trust  me,  Mary?"     She  clung  closely. 

"Yes,  Jerry,  for  ever;  but  you'll  be  in  time,  won't  you?" 
she  added  anxiously.  "They  want  to  send  me  to  the  convent 
after  Christmas." 

He  promised  to  be  back  before  that — oh,  long  before  that. 
And  so  they  parted — saying  farewell  in  a  quiet  street — lin- 
geringly — again  and  again — till  she  tore  herself  away. 

"I  must  go,  Jerry;  Miss  Gilbert  thinks  I  am  taking  a 
morning  walk  with  Betty,  who  is  waiting  for  me  not  far 
off." 

He  watched  her  go,  returning  with  a  light  heart  and  visions 
of  a  day  when  he  should  claim  her  openly  as  her  equal.  And 
she,  going  quietly  to  her  room,  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed 
for  forgiveness  for  her  love.  Then,  with  a  few  tears,  took  the 
golden  circlet  from  her  finger,  and  passing  a  white  ribbon 
through  it,  hung  it  round  her  neck  that  it  might  rest  upon  her 
heart  till  he  should  replace  it. 

Toby  returned  that  afternoon,  a  changed  Toby — happy, 
cheerful,  busy — and  the  old  house  seemed  bathed  in  a  haze 
of  gentle  happiness.  Paul  came  down  that  evening  and 
tongues  flew  fast.  Dinner  was  a  feast  indeed,  Toby  bring- 
ing all  his  inventive  powers  to  bear  upon  it.  Margery  tripped 
backwards  and  forwards,  from  kitchen  to  hall — "like  a  young 
maiden,"  Reuben  told  her — calling  up  a  flush  to  the  withered 
cheek,  a  deeper  smile  to  the  smiling  lips,  and  Toby's  song 
echoed  from  back  regions. 

Begone,  Dull  Care;  I  prithee,  bego-one  from  me, 
Begone,  Dull  Care;  too  long  hast  thou  tarried  with  me. 
My  wife  shall  dance,  and  I  will  sing,  and  merrily  go  the  da-ay, 
For  I  hold  it  one  of  the  wisest  things  to  dri-ive  Dull  Ca-are  away. 

Paul,  from  his  couch,  laughed.     "You've  got  to  find  her  yet, 
Toby."    Toby  looked  sheepish. 

"Perhaps.  Yet— there's  little  Matty  Golden,  the  black- 
smith's daughter,  at  Channington.  She  lives  with  my  mother 


378  When  Pan  Pipes 

since — since — they  thought  me — dead.  She — "  He  shook  his 
head  merrily  and  continued  his  song. 

And  when  dinner  was  over,  the  candles  snuffed,  the  fire 
made  up,  Reuben  slipped  away,  returning  with  a  bottle  of 
choicest  wine.  Toasts  were  drunk,  laughter  and  gay  mirth 
joined  hands  and  sang  together — only  the  Jew's  face  wore 
an  occasional  look  of  thoughtfulness.  It  was  Margery  who 
asked  the  reason ;  he  smiled  at  her  as  she  sat  beside  him. 

"My  friend,  it  hurts  me  that  one  man  should  cause  so  moch 
misery — that  his  death  should  bring  so  moch  happiness." 
Toby  answered  him. 

"No,  sir,  it  is  we  who  do  wrong  who  bring  unhappiness; 
if  only  we  are  strong  and  true  to  ourselves,  nothing  evil  can 
hurt  us." 

And  Reuben  beamed  like  a  great  sun  at  mid-day. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN   WHICH   THE  GOOSE-GIRL  BORBOWS  A   SILVER  GOWN 

THE  count,  arriving  next  morning,  pronounced  his  son  able 
to  travel.  Calling  at  Cloudesley  House  later,  he  re- 
turned with  the  news  that  Lady  Mary  was  leaving  on  the 
morrow,  and  arrangements  had  been  made  for  all  to  go  to- 
gether. 

Reuben  shook  his  head  mournfully  at  the  thought  of  the 
general  exodus.  Whether  the  idea  came  from  Margery,  or 
Toby,  or  from  his  own  kind  heart,  or  whether  it  was  a  simul- 
taneous one  arising  from  all  three,  was  hard  to  say,  but  Toby 
was  despatched  that  day  to  fetch  his  mother  as  company  for 
Margery.  Jerry  and  Paul  laughed  delightedly  at  the  Jew's 
duplicity. 

"Two's  company,  Jer — three's  none,"  whispered  Paul. 

He  might  easily  have  seen  her  under  pretext  of  saying 
good-bye  to  Betty,  but  he  was  afraid  of  showing  his  feelings, 
and  Mary,  he  knew,  could  hardly  fail  to  do  the  same.  So — 
as  long  ago — he  watched  the  great  travelling  carriage  pass 
from  behind  the  shelter  of  a  tree.  She  leaned  from  a  window 
and  smiled  at  him ;  her  eyes  met  his,  holding  them  till  a  turn 
in  the  road  separated  them.  But  on  the  ground  lay  a  knot 
of  ribbon  plucked  from  her  gown,  and  with  it  a  pencilled  line, 
"Come  soon,  dearest ;  I  shall  count  the  hours." 

He  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  then  placed  it  carefully  away, 
hurrying  back  to  make  his  own  preparations  for  departure 
on  the  morrow.  Taking  the  journey  by  easy  stages,  it  was 
late  evening  ere  Cloudesley  was  reached.  They  were  silent, 
each  thinking  their  own  thoughts — Mary,  of  the  future  wait- 
ing her,  and  the  long  hours  before  happiness  would  be  hers 

379 


380  When  Pan  Pipes 

again;  Betty,  shame-faced,  as  she  met  her  lover's  eyes  in  the 
darkness,  remembering  the  events  of  the  past  fortnight;  and 
Paul  himself,  as  they  passed  the  end  of  the  lane,  calling  back 
that  wild  hurried  ride  in  the  October  dawn  only  a  year  or  so 
ago,  and  the  anguish,  the  pain,  lived  through  since  then.  The 
count  returned  with  the  pleasant  feelings  of  an  older  man 
who  has  been  separated  from  loved  surroundings,  from  his 
home  and  all  the  daily  habits,  for  a  long  period. 

The  Dower  House  was  lighted  cheerfully;  its  doors  stood 
wide  to  receive  the  tired  travellers.  In  her  quiet,  but  au- 
thoritative way  my  Lady  Karen  had  ordained  that  Paul  and 
his  father  should  stay  on  till — she  had  hesitated  a  little,  then 
added,  "Till  after  Christmas."  And  the  count,  contrasting 
his  lonely  home  with  the  other,  and  its  society  of  women  and 
young  people,  accepted  gladly.  Betty,  having  passed  the  ordeal 
of  her  aunt's  scolding,  her  uncle's  loving  welcome,  returned 
to  the  Dower  House.  "Till  after  Christmas,"  she  also  said, 
sighing — a  sigh  which  was  echoed  by  the  farmer,  not  by  his 
wife — words  or  actions  were  more  in  her  way: 

"My  lord  should  be  ashamed  o'  hisself,"  she  cried  angrily. 
"Shutting  up  his  only  daughter,  an'  the  bonniest  daughter 
ever  man  had — almost,"  she  added,  glancing  at  Betty,  "in  a 
convent  wi'  black  nuns  an'  priests,  when  she  should  be  thinkin' 
only  o'  pleasurin'  and  lovemakin',  an'  gettin'  settled  for  life. 
If  my  ladies  had  their  way  they'd  never  let  her  go — leastways, 
not  my  Lady  Kezzy.  In  spite  o'  my  Lady  Mima,  they  know 
that  men  an'  women  was  meant  for  marryin'  and  children, 
same's  the  birds  an'  the  flowers,  an'  everything  else  the  good 
God  made." 

Ah,  yes — my  ladies  knew  it.  They  had  wondered  greatly 
at  Mary's  visit  to  themselves,  Lady  Kezzy  with  gratitude, 
Lady  Karen,  penetrating  deeper,  reading  to  the  depths  of  her 
brother's  heart,  guessed  the  reason,  and  hope,  never  extin- 
guished, burned  brightly  again.  Yet  she  also  knew  that  vows 
once  taken  by  my  lord  would  never  be  cancelled.  For  her 
remained  to  take  the  initiative.  But  to  scheme  was  false  to 


A  Silver  Gown  381 


my  lady's  nature;  for  the  first  time  perhaps  in  her  life  she 
stooped  to  consult  her  sister,  and  my  Lady  Kezzy,  with  a 
pink  flush  in  her  cheek — for  it  was  a  delicate  subject — and  a 
strange  hesitation  in  her  gentle  voice,  gave  counsel. 

"If — if — Mary — could  love  Paul,  sister;  if — if — they  could 
be — married — before  Christmas — why  then — " 

Lady  Karen  rose,  and  stooping,  kissed  her  sister. 

"Kezzy,  I  believe  you're  right;  but — suppose  they  do  not 
care  for  each  other."  Lady  Kezzy  grasped  her  hands  eagerly. 

"Oh,  but  they  must,  they  must.  Who  could  help  loving 
Mary,  sister — so  winsome,  so  lovely;  and  Paul — "  the  flush 
deepened,  "is  he  not  handsome  and  young;  her  equal  in  birth 
— in  position;  and  thrown  together.  Oh,  sister,  it  must  be, 
perhaps,"  her  eyes  were  shining,  "even  now  we  shall  save 
her."  My  Lady  Karen  sighed.  More  experienced,  of  a 
sterner  mould  than  her  sister,  she  saw  the  difficulties.  Time 
was  short — her  brother's  anger;  but — Mary  must  be  saved  at 
any  cost.  She  thought  sometimes  of  consulting  Mother 
Monica,  then  put  the  idea  away,  as  a  resource  only  to  be  used 
when  all  else  failed. 

So  each  inmate  of  the  Dower  House  donned  his  mask, 
even  the  count.  In  quiet  corners,  by  the  language  of  glances 
and  smiles,  Paul  and  Betty  did  their  love-making,  not  yet  was 
the  time  for  disclosure.  The  farmer,  whose  pride  was  every 
whit  as  great  as  my  lord's,  would  never  allow  his  niece  to  wed 
above  her  station,  and  Paul  dreaded  his  father's  disappoint- 
ment, even  though  it  might  be  accompanied  by  a  reluctant 
consent.  Betty,  too,  had  her  share  of  pride ;  not  even  to  Mary 
did  she  speak  of  her  secret;  secure  in  Paul's  love,  she  was 
content  to  see  him  in  her  lady's  company  from  morning  to 
night. 

Both  girls  carried  their  secrets  lightly,  as  happy  secrets 
should  be  carried.  Against  Mary's  was  weighed  her  father's 
anger.  With  perfect  trust  in  her  lover  she  had  common- 
sense  to  know  that  difficulties  lay  thick  in  their  path — that 
even  those  overcome,  the  future  meant  poverty,  obscurity, 


382  When  Pan  Pipes 

and — though  they  were  as  naught — the  thought  of  estrange- 
ment from  her  friends  and  banishment  from  her  loved  home 
made  her  grave  and  quiet. 

If  she  had  been  dear  as  a  child,  now  in  the  pride  and  beauty 
of  maidenhood  she  was  doubly  so.  My  Lady  Karen,  ever 
stern  and  undemonstrative,  showed  her  love  but  rarely,  but 
my  Lady  Kezzy  gave  herself  heart  and  soul  to  her  niece,  and 
Mary,  responding  warmly,  the  two,  in  spite  of  the  disparity 
in  age,  became  inseparable.  When  two  are  linked  together 
by  love  and  circumstances  and  constant  companionship,  se- 
crets are  apt  to  leak  out.  Many  a  time  it  was  on  Mary's 
tongue  to  speak  of  her  new  found  happiness,  but  discretion 
prevailed.  Not  so  my  lady.  Within  a  week,  by  sundry  words, 
dark  hints  and  mysterious  nods,  she  had  let  out  their  dearest 
wish.  Mary  in  childhood  had  heard  it  mentioned,  and  now, 
knowing  its  utter  futility,  showed  no  surprise;  her  aunt,  in- 
terpreting the  reception  favourably,  glowed  with  satisfaction. 

As  she  lay  awake  that  night  thinking  of  Jerry,  his  last  let- 
ter, enclosed  in  one  to  Betty,  clasped  in  her  hand,  Mary 
resolved  to  take  a  step  on  her  own  responsibility.  She  would 
tell  Paul.  He  was  Jerry's  friend  and  hers,  and  the  secret 
was  safe  with  him.  Not  even  to  him,  however,  did  she  tell 
of  that  last  step  taken.  She  waited  her  opportunity,  but 
my  Lady  Kezzy  was  first.  Triumphant  with  her  venture, 
she  plunged  wildly  into  its  sequel,  and  having,  by  a  strata- 
gem, disposed  of  Mary  on  an  errand  with  Betty  to  Mrs. 
Chubbe,  she  artfully  introduced  the  subject  to  Paul.  Like 
Mary,  secure  in  his  own  love,  he  too  betrayed  no  surprise; 
looking  further  ahead  he  saw  that  the  plan  might  prove  use- 
ful both  to  ward  off  suspicion  and  also  to  gain  time.  Lady 
Kezzy  received  his  non-committal  answers  with  delight. 

"They  had  not  thought  of  such  a  thing  before,  sister,"  she 
said,  when  retailing  the  conversation ;  "now  they  will  see  each 
other  with  different  eyes,  and  surely — surely — love  will  come." 

Lady  Karen  listened  gravely  and  shook  her  head  with  a 
grim  smile. 


A  Silver  Gown  383 


"Always  looking  on  the  bright  side,  Kezzy.  Let  us  hope 
that  this  time  you  may  be  right."  It  gave  zest  to  the  dull 
December  days,  passing  so  quickly.  Even  Mary  smiled  at 
her  aunt's  little  manoeuvres  to  throw  them  together,  and  on 
the  first  occasion,  shyly  blushing,  with  downcast  eyes,  she  told 
Paul,  bidding  him  keep  her  secret,  for  her  own  sake,  for  his 
friend's.  He  listened  with  thoughtful  eyes  and  slightly  puz- 
zled brows. 

"Have  you  realised  what  it  means,  Mary,"  he  said,  "the 
earl's  anger — poverty?"  She  interrupted  him. 

"I  know,  Paul,  I  have  reckoned  everything.  It  means  love 
and  happiness  and  joy,  or  a  living  death  between  convent 
walls,  and  I  have  chosen." 

"Then  be  it  so,"  he  answered;  "and  you  have  chosen  well, 
no  matter  what  his  birth,  for  Jerry  can  afford  to  let  that  go; 
he  is  honourable,  truthful,  and  will  make  a  position  some  day. 
Yes,  Mary,  it  will  come  all  right,  you'll  see.  And  now,  in 
return,  hear  my  secret."  Her  face  grew  grave  as  she  listened. 

"Paul,  have  you  thought?"  she  cried  in  dismay.  "Betty, 
a  farmer's  niece,  my  maid;  oh,  Paul,  I'm  disappointed."  He 
laughed  at  her  expression. 

"Mary,  we've  fallen  from  our  high  estate,  you  and  I,  but 
into  a  better  one — the  kingdom  of  love.  Betty  will  be  my 
wife,  and  with  you  and  Jerry  for  friends,  what  matters  the 
world?"  She  was  won. 

"And  oh,  Paul,  Betty  is  so  sweet — so  loving.  I'm  really 
glad,  only — "  she  sighed,  "I  wish  it  was  over — the  anger  and 
trouble."  He  smiled  cheerfully  at  her. 

"It'll  all  come  right,  Mary,  with  Jerry  and  me  to  pull 
it  through.  You'll  see.  And  now  I've  got  a  tale  to  tell  you." 
Laughingly  he  told  her  of  the  conspiracy,  laughing  again  when 
he  heard  that  she,  too,  had  been  sounded. 

"Suppose,"  he  whispered  teasingly,  yet  three  parts  in  earnest, 
"suppose  we  let  them  think  we  are  going  their  way.  We'll 
tell  Betty — she'll  help  when  she  knows  it  is  for  your  sake 
chiefly."  And  Betty,  called  in  consultation,  agreed,  promising 


384  When  Pan  Pipes 

to  aid  and  abet  my  lady's  scheme  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 
And  another  week  passed.  Every  post  brought  a  letter  from 
Jerry,  each  one  bidding  her  trust. 

"A  few  more  days,"  he  wrote,  "and  I  start  homewards; 
then,  dearest,  you  shall  know  why  I  left  you.  Never  again 
shall  a  secret  come  between  us."  A  few  more  days.  Why, 
when  she  got  the  letter  he  would  be  on  his  way;  a  few  more 
days — and  she  would  see  him  again.  It  wanted  but  a  fort- 
night to  Christmas,  which  was  to  be  spent  at  the  Dower  House ; 
just  themselves  and  the  earl,  who  was  expected  the  evening 
before. 

"A  quiet  Christmas,"  said  my  Lady  Kezzy,  and  Mary 
thought  to  herself  that  it  might  prove  more  exciting  than  her 
aunt  expected.  A  trifling  incident  turned  her  sick  with  ap- 
prehension. It  was  as  though  the  bands  were  tightening 
round  her,  and  for  a  time,  sudden  terror  seized  her,  a  sense 
of  loneliness,  of  helpless  impotency  to  stand  before  the  strength 
and  will  of  her  father,  and  that  other  power,  personated  by 
Father  Francis. 

Mother  Monica,  in  love  and  gratitude  to  the  earl,  had  begged 
permission  to  work  the  robe  which  was  to  be  worn  by  his 
daughter  on  the  great  day  when  she  became  the  bride  of  the 
Church.  No  pains  had  been  spared,  and,  each  sister  taking 
part  in  the  labour  of  love,  the  beautiful  robe  became  a  work 
of  art.  Anxious  that  the  ladies  should  see  it,  it  was  sent  to 
the  Dower  House,  to  return  with  its  wearer. 

With  much  ceremony  it  was  displayed  by  a  black-robed 
nun,  and  in  spite  of  the  repugnance  with  which  they  viewed 
it,  the  mocking  symbol  of  marriage,  my  ladies  could  but  ad- 
mire the  patient  workmanship,  the  delicate  tracery  of  the  pat- 
tern, and  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  garment.  It  was  of 
white  satin,  stiff,  yet  softly  supple;  the  flounces,  running 
round  and  round  in  a  never  ending  spiral,  were  worked  with 
silver  fleur-de-lis,  and  the  nun  pointed  out  that  so  many  were 
the  work  of  Sister  Catherine,  Sister  Agnes,  Sister  Ursula,  and 
so  on,  giving  the  whole  thing  a  personal  touch.  Priceless  lace 


A  Silver  Gown  385 


draped  the  low  cut  bodice,  the  slender  waist,  while  here  and 
there  a  silver  rose  caught  and  held  it  together.  In  the  morn- 
ing light  it  shimmered  and  gleamed — a  fairy  dress. 

The  nun  was  authorised  to  ask  if  my  ladies  would  prefer 
the  veil  worked  or  plain.  There  was  plenty  of  time  if  they 
chose  the  former.  Lady  Karen  gave  a  decisive  negative. 

"Tell  the  Reverend  Mother,  sister,  that  I  wish  to  provide 
the  veil.  The  daughters  of  our  house  have  always  worn  the 
same,  and  though  this  is  no  worldly  bridal,"  she  sighed,  "yet, 
as  the  dress  is  such  as  would  have  been  worn,  Mary  must  use 
the  veil."  The  sister  bowed  her  head. 

"I  will  tell  the  Rev.  Mother,  my  lady,"  she  answered  meekly. 

The  little  event,  trifling  as  it  seemed,  cast  a  gloom  over  the 
Dower  House.  It  was  reality  throwing  its  shadow,  and  my 
ladies  consulted  together  till  late  in  the  night,  Lady  Karen, 
in  a  common  trouble,  stooping  to  her  sister's  level,  even  con- 
descending to  ask  counsel  of  one,  who,  in  wisdom  of  the  heart, 
was  wider  versed  than  she. 

Far  away,  the  swineherd,  already  a  prince,  had  taken  his 
rightful  place;  the  birthday  had  become  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Each  day  saw  a  change  in  him,  as  the  sense  of  his  dignity 
and  position  grew.  The  laird's  love  and  pride  knew  no 
bounds,  a  wish  was  hardly  conceived  when  it  was  granted, 
and  the  days  flew  by  in  delightful  succession.  But  Mary, 
through  all,  shone  like  a  radiant  star,  always  present,  always 
longed  for.  Jerry,  still  somewhat  shy  of  his  grandfather,  let 
the  time  pass,  meaning  each  day  to  tell  his  secret,  yet  each 
night  finding  it  untold. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  made  up  his  mind,  and 
that  same  evening,  as  they  sat  over  their  wine,  he  spoke  of. 
his  love.  The  laird  listened  gravely,  his  face  hidden  by  his 
hands,  but  said  nothing  till  the  tale  was  ended.  For  some 
minutes  he  sat  wrapped  in  thought — at  last  he  roused. 

"I  was  back  in  the  past,  grandson — the  past,"  he  sighed, 
then,  lifting  his  head,  sat  back  in  the  tall  oak  chair.  "Ger- 


386  When  Pan  Pipes 

vaise,  the  hand  of  fate  plays  with  events  as  men  play  with 
the  figures  of  a  game — moving  them  to  a  certain  end — an 
end  of  sorrow  or  happiness.  In  yours,  a  marvellous  game — 
a  marvellous  end.  Listen,  grandson.  Edward  Cloudesley's 
father  and  mine  were  brothers — mine  being  the  younger.  My 
cousin  has  no  son,  and  Cloudesley,  should  I  outlive  him,  comes 
to  me.  After  my  death,"  he  gave  a  quick  glance  at  the  younger 
man's  face,  but  it  betrayed  only  vivid  interest,  "until  lately, 
it  passes  to — to — "  again  he  looked,  then  altered  his  expres- 
sion. "You've  heard,  no  doubt,  that  my  cousin's  wife  left 
him?"  Jerry  nodded.  "Of  the  right  or  wrong,  I  can  say 
nothing;  Edward  is  stern  and  cold,  yet — "  again  he  changed 
his  form  of  words.  "She  was  accompanied  by  a  distant  rela- 
tive— the  man  who,  failing  a  son  of  Cloudesley  or  Ardelimar, 
succeeds." 

Dimly  conscious  of  something  underlying  his  grandfather's 
words,  Jerry  listened  with  eager  interest.  The  old  man  went 
on. 

"Long,  long  ago  I  loved  my  cousin  Keziah ;  she  was  younger 
than  I  by  many  years,  and  a  sweeter,  bonnier  maiden  never 
lived: — ah,  well — "  the  long  drawn  sigh  told  a  tale  of  past 
sadness.  "She  did  not  love  me,  her  love  was  given  elsewhere 
— at  least  I  thought  so  at  the  time — to  a  younger  man;  but 
I  may  have  been  mistaken,  for  she  has  never  married.  Ed- 
ward urged  it,  did  all  he  could  to  prevail  upon  her  to  marry 
me,  but  Kezzy  stood  firm.  He  married  himself,  with  what 
result  you  know.  I  too,  married,  a  good  woman — but  not  my 
first  love — and  your  father,  Gervaise,  became  heir  to  both 
properties,  for  Ardelimar  came  through  my  wife  and  de- 
scends to  her  son.  At  your  father's  death — "  he  pushed  back 
his  chair,  and  Jerry,  slowly  realising,  rose  quickly,  his  face 
white,  his  breath  coming  and  going  quickly.  "At  his  death," 
continued  the  thin  old  voice — then  stopped.  The  laird  rose 
and  leaned  forward,  one  hand  resting  on  the  table,  "Grandson, 
do  you  understand  ?" 


A  Silver  Gown  387 


"I — I — don't — quite — know."  His  voice  was  shrill  and  high 
— unfamiliar. 

"My  boy — my  boy — "  he  stepped  to  him,  laid  his  hands  on 
his  arm  and  looked  up  into  the  youthful  face  above  him  with 
a  little  laugh,  half  tearful,  half  joyous.  "Gervaise,  there  is 
but  one  wife  for  you  in  the  wide  world,  one  only,  who  shall 
unite  the  lands  and  wealth  of  Cloudesley  and  Ardelimar;  one 
only — and  that  is — "  Jerry  started  to  his  feet  with  sudden 
understanding. 

"That  is — Mary  Cloudesley!"  he  almost  shouted.  "Grand- 
father, grandfather."  He  had  fallen  forward  on  the  table,  his 
head  on  his  arms,  a  storm  of  emotion  fighting  for  outlet.  The 
laird  put  his  hand  on  the  heaving  shoulders  waiting  for  the 
flood  to  pass. 

"Yes,  Gervaise,  it's  true;  only — grandson,  lift  your  head — 
for  you've  made  one  mistake."  Jerry  obeyed  in  wonderment ; 
the  laird  was  smiling.  "Not  Mary  Cloudesley,  if  what  you  tell 
me  is  right,  but — Mary  Ross." 

"Yes — "  he  sprang  to  his  feet — "yes,  it's  true.  Oh,  grand- 
father, grandfather,  the  fates  have  indeed  brought  us  to  a 
happy  ending."  Instinctively,  as  men  do  in  times  of  tension, 
they  grasped  hands,  letting  the  tide  of  emotion  surge  and 
flow  and  ebb  before  they  spoke. 

"Grandfather,"  youth  recovers  itself  before  age,  "I  suppose 
— now — there  will  be  no  difficulty  with — "  he  broke  off,  flush- 
ing at  the  familiarity  of  the  new  title,  then  compromising  "the 
earl,  I  mean — about — the  convent."  The  laird  was  grave. 

"I  think — I  hope  not.  Edward  is  stern — relentless;  yet, 
surely,  in  this  case — "  he  stopped,  then  continued  more  cheer- 
fully, "but  we'll  go  together,  grandson;  he  will  perhaps  listen 
to  me — for  I  too  have  known  trouble,"  he  added  softly,  "from 
my  own  pride,  and  have  repented,  as — perhaps — he  may." 

"Then  we'll  go  at  once — to-morrow,"  cried  Jerry  joyfully. 
The  laird  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"There  must  be  some  preparations,  Gervaise;  when  Ross 


388  When  Pan  Pipes 

of  Ardelimar  brings  home  his  bride,  it  must  be  in  state.  We 
will  start  in  two  days,  arriving  at  Cloudesley  by  the  twentieth, 
which  will  give  us  time  for  explanations  and  a  joyous  Christ- 
mas." 

Jerry  saw  no  objection ;  the  delight  of  fetching  his  princess 
with  the  pomp  and  grandeur  of  a  prince,  almost  compensated 
for  the  delay.  And  then  fate,  hitherto  so  kind,  in  its  usual 
tricksy  freakish  fashion,  ordained  differently.  He  woke  next 
morning  to  a  white  land.  The  snow,  falling  noiselessly,  lay 
deep  on  mountain  sides,  deeper  still  in  the  valleys.  The  laird 
looked  anxiously  out  and  gave  orders  to  hasten  the  prepara- 
tions. But  state  liveries,  laid  by  for  many  long"  years,  are 
not  quickly  restored,  and  the  repairing  of  a  travelling  car- 
riage takes  time. 

The  laird  fretted  and  fumed,  gave  orders,  cancelled  them, 
issued  new  ones,  in  short,  would  have  retarded  instead  of 
hastening  matters,  but  for  the  sublime  indifference  of  the 
servants  who,  knowing  their  master,  worked  stolidly  on.  And 
the  snow  fell — fell — softly — softly.  At  last  all  was  finished, 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  sixteenth  of  December  they  started, 
the  laird  in  a  state  of  ferment  almost  surpassing  his  grand- 
son's. The  white  flakes,  like  a  fine  veil,  seemed  to  mock 
them  as  they  drove  through  the  archway. 

They  had  been  two  days  on  their  journey  when  Mary  re- 
ceived the  letter  telling  her  the  date  of  arrival.  She  shed 
a  few  tears  as  she  read  it,  for  the  past  weeks  had  been  stren- 
uous. With  perfect  trust  in  him  she  could  hardly  help  won- 
dering what  business  had  kept  him  so  long  away,  nor  imag- 
ining how,  in  the  case  of  delay,  she  should  bear  her  father's 
wrath  unaided.  Now,  the  weight  was  lifted — another  three 
days  and  he  would  come ;  she  would  not  be  alone. 

The  gentle  voice  had  a  new  note  of  happiness;  the  lovely 
face  was  lit  with  something  more  than  mere  surface  beauty, 
and  my  ladies  rejoiced;  things  were  going  well.  In  a  day  or 
two  they  would  take  the  final  step,  and,  if  possible — Lady 
Kezzy  shrank  from  the  thought,  yet  bravely  determined  to 


A  Silver  Gown  389 


face  her  brother's  anger — if  possible,  the  wedding  should  be 
on  the  twenty-third. 

To  Paul  came  the  first  intimation  of  the  plot  deepening. 
Summoned  by  my  ladies  one  morning  he  found  them  in  a 
state  of  fluttered  agitation.  The  conversation,  hovering  round 
trivial  subjects,  gradually  worked  towards  the  desired  end. 
Lady  Karen  helped  her  sister's  faltering  words  with  a  few 
blunt  sentences. 

"The  fact  is  this,  Paul,"  she  said,  "Mary  must  be  saved — 
at  any  cost;  I  repeat,  at  any  cost.  You  are  equals  in  birth, 
in  position — you  love  each  other.  Ah,  Paul — "  she  rose,  and 
standing  behind  him  as  he  sat  at  the  table,  laid  her  hand 
softly  on  his  shoulder,  "my  dear  boy,  will  you  help  us — and 
her?"  He  looked  up  into  the  stern,  dark  face,  soft  now — 

"Of  course  I  will,  Lady  Karen.  I  love  Mary,  and  if  it  is 
in  my  power  to  save  her,  God  knows  I  will  do  it,  cost  what 
it  may."  Lady  Kezzy  jumped  up,  and  running  round  the 
table  caught  his  hand. 

"I  knew  you  would;  oh,  Paul — you've  saved  her.  If  only 
you'll — "  she  broke  off,  glancing  at  her  sister,  "tell  him,  Karen." 
My  lady  obeyed,  her  stern  voice  faltering  a  little. 

"We  thought,  Paul — if  you  love  each  other — that,  once 
married — Mary  could  refuse  to  obey  her  father,  and — "  He 
stopped  her. 

"Do  you  mean — that — that — we  should — " 

"Yes,"  she  finished  the  sentence  in  her  usual  way,  "I  do. 
I  mean  that,  before  Christmas,  you  should  marry  Mary — here 
— secretly."  He  shook  his  head. 

"It  could  not  be,  Lady  Karen ;  Mary  would  never  consent." 

"Will  you  ask  her?"  she  replied  eagerly.  He  was  silent; 
time  was  everything,  and  there  was  the  keeping  of  their  se^- 
crets. 

"I  will  ask  her,  certainly,  as  you  wish  it,  but — "  again  he 
shook  his  head ;  Lady  Kezzy  broke  in : 

"But  you'll  urge  it,  dear  boy;  oh,  Paul — save  her.  Go 
now — at  once — and  let  us  have  her  answer."  He  thought 


390  When  Pan  Pipes 

things  over  as  he  left  them.  It  was  the  eighteenth,  any  mo- 
ment Jerry  might  come — only  let  matters  lie  quiet  till  then. 
He  found  Betty  and  told  her.  She,  too,  shook  her  head,  but 
advised  tactful  delay. 

"Suppose  he  doesn't  come,  Paul,  till — till — " 

"Ah,  then — then — we  must  find  some  other  plan;  but  he'll 
come,  Betty,  trust  Jerry." 

And  still  the  snow  fell — day  after  day.  Far  away  in  the 
north  a  great  travelling  carriage  struggled  on  through  the 
soft  white  carpet,  growing  deeper  every  hour.  Darkness  fell, 
and  the  tired  horses,  plunging  wildly,  sank  to  their  knees ;  the 
carriage  gave  a  lunge  forward,  then  to  the  side,  finally  settling 
down  and  down  till  it  came  to  a  standstill.  The  laird  pushed 
open  a  window  and  looked  out.  The  flare  of  lanterns  fell  on 
the  white  expanse,  on  the  faces  of  men  loosening  the  fright- 
ened horses  with  shouts  and  encouraging  words.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  watched,  then  called  "Andrew!" 

"Aye,  laird."    The  old  servant  came  to  the  carriage  door. 

"You  must  take  lanterns  and  two  of  the  boys,  and  go  seek 
help;  shovels  and  ropes,  and  men,  if  possible.  We  must  get 
out  at  any  cost.  Go — at  once." 

"Ay,  laird." 

In  five  minutes  the  men  had  dispersed,  Andrew  and  two  of 
the  postillions  going  east,  the  coachman  and  the  others  turn- 
ing to  the  west,  leaving  the  remainder  of  the  party  to  wait 
with  what  patience  they  could.  In  an  hour — it  seemed  like 
months — they  returned,  bringing  two  shepherds  with  the  neces- 
sary tools,  and  the  news  that  they  were  a  mile  off  the  main 
road  and  ten  from  a  village.  The  laird  groaned  again. 

"Get  us  out,  lads,"  he  cried,  "to  the  high  road;  we  can- 
not wait."  But  it  was  not  till  midnight  that  the  main  thor- 
oughfare was  regained;  step  by  step,  a  man  at  each  leader's 
head,  the  tired  horses  accomplished  the  ten  miles,  and  morn- 
ing light  saw  outlines  of  cottages,  marking  a  halt.  Here  a 
short  rest  was  imperative  and  farm  horses  found  to  take  them 
to  the  next  posting  town. 


A  Silver  Gown  391 


So,  almost  inch  by  inch,  they  fought  their  way,  meeting 
no  vehicle,  except  once  the  mail  coach,  like  their  own  delayed 
by  a  detour  and  a  drift,  like  them  already  a  day  late  and 
likely  to  be  more.  It  was  the  night  of  the  twentieth  when 
they  arrived  in  Edinburgh,  only  to  hear  fearful  tales  of  moun- 
tain passes  lost  in  the  snow,  of  highwaymen,  of  coaches  held 
up,  even  of  the  rifling  of  her  Majesty's  mail  bags.  In  no 
wise  daunted  they  pressed  on,  taking  little  rest,  and  found  that 
money  can  do  most  things.  York  was  reached  and  from  there 
the  roads  were  comparatively  clear.  The  laird  breathed. 

"We  shall  do  it,  grandson — if  all  goes  well." 

Jerry  had  few  words ;  he  thought  of  his  love  waiting,  count- 
ing the  hours;  of  her  anguish  as  the  days  passed.  Did  she 
still  trust  him?  And  his  heart  said  "Yes — yes."  Time — time 
— was  all  he  wanted,  and  he  urged  the  laird  to  still  greater 
efforts. 

But  of  the  real  anguish  he  could  hardly  guess.  As  the 
long  expected  day  passed,  her  heart  sank  low  and  lower. 
She  strove  to  maintain  her  usual  demeanour,  but  when  the 
following  morning  broke,  and  the  hours  went  by,  bringing 
no  sign,  no  message,  she  fled  to  Paul,  sobbing  out  her  grief, 
while  he  listened  with  troubled  face. 

"Paul,  Paul,  save  me — oh,  save  me!  What  if  he  does  not 
come  in  time?  Once  back  in  the  convent  I  am  lost.  Oh, 
help  me — help  me !  If  you  only  knew — all."  He  turned  from 
his  musing. 

"What  more  is  there,  Mary?  Tell  me,  dear — everything." 
And  in  her  despair,  with  frightened  glances  round,  she  clung 
to  him,  whispering  her  secret  in  his  ear  in  tones  so  low  he  had 
to  bend  to  hear. 

"Mary — "  he  caught  her  hand,  "brave  girl — a  marriage  with 
me — would  be — a  mock  one;  and  time — time — yes." 

He  talked,  persuaded,  finally  leaving  her  comforted,  and 
with  a  promise  that  if  to-morrow  passed  without  Jerry,  she 
would  go  through  the  form  of  marriage,  and  taking  Betty, 
they  three  would  journey  to  London,  seek  out  Reuben,  and  lie 


392  When  Pan  Pipes 

hid  there  till  Jerry  should  return.  A  wild  scheme,  worthy 
of  youth  and  romance. 

Paul  went  to  my  ladies'  sitting-room  to  give  his  final  an- 
swer. He  found  Mrs.  Chubbe  with  them,  and  the  beautiful 
dress  with  its  attendant  fineries  spread  on  a  couch,  having 
been  displayed  to  the  old  servant.  She  took  her  leave  as 
he  entered,  curtseying  deeply  as  she  went.  Lady  Karen  looked 
up  expectantly.  "Is  it  'yes/  Paul?"  she  asked,  and  with  a 
little  laugh  he  inclined  his  head.  Lady  Kezzy  sprang  towards 
him,  half  sobbing. 

"Paul,  Paul,  she's  saved — our  dear  one."  For  a  moment  my 
Lady  Karen  turned — not  even  at  that  moment  would  she  be- 
tray emotion — then  swept  towards  them,  stately,  majestic,  and 
holding  him,  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"Dear  boy,  you'll  make  her  happy,  won't  you?  Remember, 
she  has  been  gently  brought  up."  He  took  her  hand. 

"She  shall  be  happy,  Lady  Karen.  She  shall  have  love, 
devotion,  such  as  few  women  have."  She  was  silent,  then 
lightly  turned  the  subject. 

"Come  and  see  the  sisters'  beautiful  work,  Paul,"  and  the 
next  half  hour  was  spent  in  displaying  the  dainty  fineries  and 
making  arrangements  for  the  ceremony.  Paul  admired,  even 
handled  the  glittering  dress,  the  priceless  lace  of  the  veil.  As 
he  did  so,  a  sudden  thought  leaped  to  his  brain — a  wonderful, 
daring  thought — no — an  inspiration.  He  heard  their  voices 
as  from  a  distance;  his  brain  was  awhirl.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  wild  suggestion,  which  grew  clearer  every 
moment.  At  the  first  opportunity  he  took  his  departure,  and 
going  straight  to  Betty,  told  of  the  glorious  new  born  thought. 

So  again  the  long  day  passed ;  night  came,  and  the  morning 
of  the  twenty-third  dawned.  Mary's  white  face  was  accounted 
for  by  the  coming  excitement,  but  Betty's  usually  pale  cheeks 
were  flushed,  her  sparkling  eyes  gentle  and  sweet,  and  the 
saucy  head  drooped  shyly  as  she  met  his  longing  gaze. 

That  day  came  a  gleam  of  hope;  tales  reached  them  of 
the  heavy  snowstorms  in  the  north,  of  coaches  delayed,  and 


A  Silver  Gown  393 


Mary's  heart  leaped  for  joy.  Time — time — was  all  that  was 
needed,  and  she  breathed  relief  as  she  thought  of  Paul's  won- 
derful plan. 

And  all  that  day  the  carriage,  with  its  fast  horses  urged 
on  by  excited  post  boys,  fled  over  the  now  cleared  roads, 
passing  every  vehicle,  even  the  mail  coach,  and,  only  pausing 
to  change  horses,  arrived  in  London  at  ten  o'clock.  Cramped 
and  stiff  with  long  sitting,  the  laird  went  to  his  room  for  a 
short  rest  and  to  prepare  for  the  last  part  of  the  journey. 
A  messenger  was  despatched  to  Highgate,  where  Mr.  Gardiner 
had  his  private  house,  to  drag  him,  if  necessary,  from  his  bed, 
and  then  Jerry  broached  his  request,  knowing  it  to  be  already 
granted. 

"Grandfather,  I  want  Margery  with  us,  and  Reuben — and 
Toby;  do  you  mind?"  The  laird  turned,  half  smiling,  half 
sadly. 

"Gervaise,  understand  your  will  is  law;  there  is  no  need 
to  ask.  Command.  Give  your  orders  as  my  grandson."  So 
away  to  the  house  in  the  square ;  with  galloping  horses  and  a 
coach  only  inferior  to  the  one  which  was  to  take  them  to 
Cloudesley. 

He  found  them  seated  round  the  fire,  a  cheerful,  happy 
party,  and  as  they  greeted  each  other  with  handshakes  and 
loving  words,  he  told  his  tale,  only  to  find  it  already  known. 
A  glance  at  Margery's  face  betrayed  the  culprit,  but  she  braved 
it  out. 

"It  had  to  be  known,  Master  Jerry — sir,  I  mean — and  I 
knew  there'd  be  little  or  no  time,  and — "  she  excused  herself, 
"  'twas  but  to-day  I  told  them." 

"And  now,"  cried  Jerry,  "put  on  your  bonnet,  Margery, 
the  best  one,  and  hurry,  for  I'm  going  to  fetch  her;  and  you, 
my  dear,  dear  friends,  must  come  too — all,  Toby,  Mrs.  Plum- 
tre."  Laughing,  hurrying,  Mrs.  Plumtre  in  everyone's  way, 
they  departed;  but  Toby  lingered  to  whisper  in  Jerry's  ear 
with  a  chuckle : 

"They've  done  it,  Jerry — while  you  were  away."    And  then, 


394  When  Pan  Pipes 

in  answer  to  the  surprised  look,  "they — Reuben — Margery." 
And  Jerry,  understanding,  joined  in  the  chuckle.  There  was 
time  to  spare  when  they  returned,  warmly  clad  for  the  long 
journey;  and  sitting  over  the  fire  Reuben  told  his  news.  Mar- 
gery would  fain  have  slipped  away,  but  he  held  her  close. 

"And  so,  mein  yongling,  I  am  no  more  lonely.  When  I 
thought  of  the  house  without  you  and  Toby — without  her — 
I  thought  I  would  go  mad ;  for  how  should  she — so  good — so 
sweet — how  should  she  want  an  old  fellow — a  Jew — not  even 
an  Englishman ;  and  yet — so  strange  is  woman — she  said  yes — 
and  so — "  this  very  shamefacedly,  "and  so,  since  you,  mein 
yongling,  haf  shown  the  way — we  went,  one  morning — and — 
and — "  he  shook  his  head  and  gazed  fondly  at  the  little  bent 
form  by  his  side,  the  little  worn,  hard-working  hand  held  in 
his  great  one.  There  was  a  few  minutes'  silence,  then  he 
spoke  again. 

"Mein  yongling,  you  are  now  a  great  gentleman;  yet  still 
so  dear  to  me  you  are,  I  must  call  you  by  that  name.  We — 
my  wife,"  this  very  proudly,  "and  I — haf  a  favour  to  ask. 
Will  you  let  us  haf  the  cottage?  I  will  give  good  price;  we 
cannot  always  live  here,  and  I  want  no  more  to  play  the 
pedlar." 

And  then  Jerry  got  some  of  his  own  back. 

"Do  you  want  to  insult  me,  Reuben?  The  cottage  is  Mar- 
gery's— when  it  is  mine  to  give.  At  present,  you — or  I — must 
ask  my  lord."  The  Jew  nodded. 

"I  will  pay  him  well;  for,  listen,  mein  yongling — my  wife 
— and  all,  I  am  a  rich  man;  I  can  do  what  I  please,  and 
now — "  his  voice  rose  with  vehement  emphasis;  jumping  up 
he  stepped  on  the  stool,  and  from  the  high  shelf  fetched 
down  the  "jar  of  good  deeds."  "Now,  with  her,  my  madchen," 
he  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  the  fingers  lightly,  while  Jerry 
could  scarcely  refrain  from  a  laugh  at  the  appellation,  "I 
want  no  more  such  things.  I  will  put  them  away;  the  bottles 
will  do  for  lotions  and  pheeziques;  the  beads  we  will  keep 
for  seven  years  and  then  turn  them  over  for  luck;  they  will 


A  Silver  Gown  395 


kom  handy  some  time."  Then,  suddenly  catching  an  amused 
glance  on  Jerry's  face,  and  a  certain  comical  look  on  Toby's, 
he  started  forward,  bottle  in  hand. 

"Nein,  nein,"  he  shouted,  "I  will  not — I  will  no  longer  be 
mizaire.  They  shall  go — this  minute — to  the  fire." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  words  he  would  have  thrown 
them  in  but  for  Jerry  and  Toby,  who,  bubbling  over  with 
laughter,  held  his  arms. 

"No,  no,"  they  cried,  "keep  them — give  them  to  Margery — 
anything — but  not  that."  With  a  sudden  inspiration  Reuben 
turned  gleefully. 

"I  haf  it — I  haf  it.  We  will  give  them  to  Margery  for 
'keeps/  as  the  children  say ;  and  one  day — "  here  came  a  won- 
derful winking,  "one  day,  they  shall  make  a  necklace  for  some 
child — I  will  not  say  whose — but — "  the  winking  was  so  pro- 
fuse that  Jerry  and  Toby  held  each  other,  swaying  weakly 
with  laughter:  Even  Margery,  though  not  completely  under- 
standing, smiled  and  nodded  admiringly  at  the  stout,  big- 
featured  man,  seeing  beauties  wholly  imperceptible  to  the  ordi- 
nary eye. 

But  time  was  up.  Outside  the  fresh  horses  pawed  impa- 
tiently; Mrs.  Plumtre  and  Margery,  after  agitated  curtseyings 
and  polite,  "After  you,  m'am's,"  took  their  seats;  Jerry  and 
Toby  followed;  Reuben,  locking  up,  and  taking  a  final  glance 
at  the  dark,  three-sided  old  house,  joined  them,  and  the  cobble 
stones  of  the  square  echoed  with  the  sound  of  wheels  and 
fast  trotting  horses. 

They  picked  up  the  laird's  carriage  at  the  Bull  and  Crown, 
also  Mr.  Gardiner,  long  whiskered,  apathetic  as  usual,  and 
feebly  murmuring,  "Romance — romance — this  great  city  of 
London  is  full  of  it." 

And  then  away — away — from  dingy  streets,  into  the  snow- 
clad  country. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AND  THE  SWINEHERD  COMES  TO  HIS  OWN 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  broke  on  a  glittering  world;  sunshine 
gleamed  on  never  ending  whiteness.  My  ladies  smiled 
and  nodded,  encouraging  each  other,  putting  aside  the  future 
in  the  joy  of  the  present.  Secrecy  must  be  observed,  and 
Betty  was  given  a  long  day's  holiday  to  spend  with  her  aunt. 
Dressed  in  her  best  she  departed  openly,  but  within  ten  min- 
utes was  back  in  Mary's  room,  laughing  gleefully.  Opening 
a  cupboard,  she  stepped  in,  Mary  locking  the  door  upon  her, 
and  sat  demurely  down  till  further  notice. 

My  ladies  dusted  the  chapel  themselves.  Father  Andrew 
was  admitted  by  the  garden  door,  and  the  chapel  was  closed 
and  barred  while  my  ladies  made  themselves  ready  for  the 
ceremony.  Lady  Kezzy  would  fain  have  helped  her  niece, 
but  Mary  threw  her  arms  round  her  and  begged  to  be  alone 
till  everything  was  ready;  reluctantly  her  aunt  gave  way. 

Church  Clock  struck  ten.  Mary,  having  seen  the  last  prep- 
arations completed,  went  to  her  room,  carefully  barred  the 
door,  and  stepped  lightly  to  the  cupboard. 

"It's  I,  Betty — Mary."  The  door  opened  cautiously,  and 
from  the  folds  of  a  lavender  silk  gown,  peeped  Betty's  laugh- 
ing face.  She  drew  her  out,  smiling  gravely. 

"It's  time,  Betty.  We  must  dress."  But  Betty,  wrapped 
in  blissful  contemplation  of  the  glories  spread  out  on  couches 
and  chairs,  heard  nothing.  The  silver  gown,  worked  by  the 
nuns'  patient  fingers,  lay  on  a  table,  the  glittering  fabric 
catching  on  one  side  every  gleam  of  the  wintry  sunshine,  on 
the  other,  deepening  to  flaring  rose-colour  in  the  glow  of  a 
great  wood  fire.  Even  Betty  sobered  as  she  thought  of  its 

396 


The  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own        397 

original  purpose ;  her  Catholic  upbringing  gave  her  conscience 
a  sudden  qualm.  Crossing  herself,  she  turned  and  slowly 
began  to  take  off  the  homely  garments,  Mary  helping  with 
trembling  hands.  But  it  was  not  until  she  lifted  the  shining 
silver  robe  that  the  full  enormity  of  the  deed  burst  upon  her. 
Throwing  it  aside  she  flung  her  arms  round  the  other  with  a 
stifled  sob. 

"Oh,  my  lady — my  lady.  I'm  frightened — the  future. 
Will  Paul  love  me  always?  Will  he  be  ashamed  of  me? 
Will  he  be  cold  and  look  down  on  me?  Oh,  help  me — help 
me — I'm  afraid."  The  warm  embrace  tightened;  Mary's 
voice  was  tender  and  low. 

"Hush,  hush,  Betty,"  she  whispered.  "Paul  loves  you  too 
dearly;  hasn't  he  shown  it  all  these  years?  And  other  peo- 
ple, with  me  for  your  friend,"  there  was  just  a  touch  of 
worldly  pride,  strange  in  one,  who,  within  a  week,  would 
renounce  such  things  for  ever,  "would  not  dare  to  slight  you." 
Betty  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  with  surprise  into  the  sweet, 
fair  face. 

"But — but — you  won't  be  here — you'll — "  Something  in  the 
blue  eyes  arrested  her — "What — what — ?" 

Lady  Mary  drew  her  near — their  heads  lay  close  together 
— gold  of  the  cornfield,  gold  of  the  copper  beech,  met  and 
mingled  beneath  the  pale  sun's  beams,  and  in  the  silence  her 
whisper  fell  on  Betty's  ears  like  the  triumphant  voice  of  an 
angel.  She  fell  back,  threw  up  her  arms  with  a  cry,  stifled 
in  time,  then  with  a  rapturous  embrace,  caught  the  other  to 
her. 

"Oh,  my  brave  darling — my  beautiful  lady — my — my — " 
They  clung  to  each  other,  crying,  laughing  under  their  breath. 

At  last  Mary  roused  herself  to  a  sense  of  time;  Church 
Clock  in  the  distance  struck  the  half  hour. 

"Betty,  we  must  be  quick."  Betty  disengaged  herself, 
pirouetted  round  the  room,  then  once  more  lifted  the  beautiful 
dress. 

"I'll  be  brave,  too,"  she  said,  "and  Paul  will  help  me.    We 


398  When  Pan  Pipes 

together  will  face  my  lord  and  my  ladies.  For  I  love  him — 
oh,  so  dearly ;  but  you — "  she  caught  the  hands  busily  arrang- 
ing the  glittering  folds.  "Oh,  poor  Mary — poor,  poor  girl." 
Mary  raised  her  sweet  face,  and  it  glowed  with  a  love  equal 
to  the  sparkling  light  on  Betty's. 

"No,  not  poor;  happy,  so  happy — for  he  will  come — I 
know." 

"I  was  thinking  of  my  lord,"  said  Betty  simply,  and  a  shade 
passed  over  the  beautiful  face. 

A  soft  knock  on  the  door,  and  Lady  Kezzy's  voice  startled 
them  into  action.  Mary  lifted  her  finger  in  a  warning  ges- 
ture as  she  answered ;  the  light  footsteps  passed  on,  and  there 
was  silence  as  Betty  fastened  the  dress  and  clasped  a  neck- 
lace of  pearls  round  her  white  neck.  Mary  lifted  the  thick 
veil,  having  previously  thrown  a  light  net  over  Betty's  head, 
making  recognition  still  more  difficult. 

"If  only  your  hair  and  eyes  were  lighter,"  she  murmured. 
"You  must  keep  in  the  shadow  and  not  lift  them;  but,  on 
the  whole,"  she  stepped  back,  looking  her  up  and  down  crit- 
ically, "I  think  you'll  pass;  the  chapel  is  very  dim,  and  the 
candles  throw  uncertain  lights.  Now  kiss  me,  dear,  and  lock 
me  up." 

They  embraced  tenderly,  and  on  each  flushed  cheek  was 
something  warm  and  wet.  Then  Mary  stepped  into  the  cup- 
board, and  Betty,  turning  the  lock  upon  her,  prepared  to  face 
the  ordeal. 

Servants  had  been  kept  at  a  distance  by  my  ladies,  but  for 
further  precaution  she  wore  a  hooded  mantle,  gathering  the 
dress  under  it.  With  a  stealthy  glance  round  the  great  land- 
ing she  stole  out,  her  heart  beating  wildly,  and  in  a  curious 
tumult  of  laughter  and  tears;  fear  to  Betty  was  unknown 
when  accompanied  by  excitement. 

She  made  her  way  through  the  arched  stone  passage,  but 
at  the  door  of  the  chapel  paused  to  recover  breath  and  to  sum- 
mon her  courage.  After  all,  what  was  there  to  fear?  Two 
elderly  ladies,  whose  sight  was  not  what  it  had  been,  and  a 


The  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own        399 

priest,  none  too  brave  when  it  came  to  encountering  my  lord's 
anger,  and  doubtless  only  anxious  to  get  it  over  and  go.  She 
drew  up  her  head,  turned  the  heavy  handle,  and  dropping  her 
eyes  demurely,  entered,  throwing  off  her  cloak  as  she  went. 

The  radiant  vision  seemed  to  light  the  dark  place  like  the 
gleam  of  fairies'  wings.  My  Lady  Karen  came  forward,  and 
taking  her  hand,  led  her  to  the  altar.  Someone  moved  to- 
wards her;  with  a  shy  upward  glance  she  saw  it  was  Paul, 
and  any  trace  of  fear  there  might  have  been,  passed  utterly. 
Father  Andrew,  gorgeous  in  robes  stiff  with  embroidery  and 
gold,  advanced,  and  at  a  sign  from  my  lady,  the  service  began. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  fearlessly  to  her  lover,  and  even  giddy 
Betty  realised  the  solemnity  of  what  was  happening. 

"Who  giveth  this  woman  to  this  man?"  asked  the  priest, 
and  my  Lady  Karen  stepped  forward,  placing  her  hand  in 
his.  A  few  minutes  more  and  it  was  over. 

"Mine,  dearest,  mine — "  he  whispered,  as  he  bent  over  her, 
"never  to  part  again." 

They  turned  to  go;  my  ladies  rose  from  their  place,  but 
a  sudden  sound  arrested  them;  a  sound  of  voices  outside 
the  door  which  led  to  the  Hall.  It  was  flung  open,  and  my 
lord,  with  Father  Francis  behind,  strode  into  the  chapel. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  haughtily  regarding  the  group. 
Betty  shrank  nearer  Paul,  and  my  Lady  Kezzy,  gasping, 
clutched  the  oaken  post  of  the  pew  entrance;  only  my  Lady 
Karen,  stepping  into  the  aisle,  and  Paul  at  the  top  of  the 
altar  steps,  gazed  unflinchingly  at  the  tall  figure,  the  proud 
disdainful  face.  He  strode  nearer. 

"So,  sister,  it  was  war  declared,  and  you  have — " 

"Won,  Edward,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"Not  so,"  my  lord's  lips  curled ;  ."Mary  is  under  age,  the 
marriage  without  my  consent  is  not  binding.  Father  An- 
drew," he  turned  to  the  priest,  who,  shivering  with  fright, 
cowered  behind  Paul,  "you  can  go.  This  direct  opposition 
to  my  wishes  will  not  pass  unnoticed." 

"There  is  no  blame  attached  to  him,  Edward,"  said  Lady 


400  When  Pan  Pipes 

Karen.     "Whatever   happens    I    take   upon   myself."     Again 
the  earl  smiled  cynically. 

"Nothing  will  happen,  my  sister;  Mary  will  return  to  the 
Convent  of  St.  Monica  at  once,  and  things  will  be  as  before." 

"Oh,  brother!"  Lady  Kezzy  woke  from  her  reverie,  and 
pushing  past  her  sister,  caught  his  hand.  "Edward — brother 
— oh,  take  back  your  word — let — "  He  put  her  calmly  aside 
and  stepped  past;  then  stopped,  as  a  sudden  sound  caught  his 
ear.  He  turned  towards  the  great  entrance. 

"What  is  this?"  he  cried  angrily.  "Could  you  not  even 
do  it  without  publicity?  Carriages — friends."  He  strode  to 
the  door;  my  ladies  gazed  fearfully  at  each  other,  and  Betty 
gave  a  low,  low  laugh  of  purest  ecstasy. 

"Paul,"  she  whispered,  clutching  his  arm,  "he's  come — 
Jerry's  come — oh — "  The  earl,  fumbling  at  the  door,  pulled 
it  open  angrily — then  fell  back,  a  blank  expression  on  his 
face. 

Outside  stood  two  carriages;  from  the  first,  a  great  state 
carriage  drawn  by  four  white  horses,  whose  postillions  wore 
wedding  favours  of  the  Ardelimar  colours,  with  footmen  in 
the  same  liveries,  with  shield  and  crest  of  Ardelimar  em- 
blazoned on  its  panels,  stepped  a  little  old  gentleman,  clad 
in  festive  garb  of  black  satin,  with  diamond  shoe-buckles 
and  diamond  studs.  Behind  him  a  younger  man,  dressed 
in  finest  blue  cloth,  with  white  waistcoat  and  gilt  buttons,  and 
wearing  a  fob  chain  of  softest  worked  gold.  They  advanced 
to  the  chapel  door.  The  earl  stepped  forward  to  greet  them, 
still  with  astonishment  written  upon  his  face. 

"Cousin,  you  are  welcome,"  he  said;  "but — "  he  hesitated 
courteously. 

"What  brings  us  here,  you  would  ask,  Edward."  The  little 
old  gentleman  smiled  and  turned.  "I  come,  my  cousin,  to 
introduce  my  grandson — my  dear  son's  son — to  his  relations, 
his  home — his  bride." 

The  earl  fell  back.     "Your  grandson,  Ross  ?    Why — why— 

"It's  a  long  tale,   cousin.     Let   it  pass   for  the  present." 


The  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own        401 

They  had  entered  the  chapel.  My  ladies,  with  surprise  equal 
to  my  lord's  written  upon  their  faces,  advanced  to  meet  them. 
The  laird  greeted  them,  but  my  Lady  Kezzy,  forgetting  rev- 
erence, her  brother,  everything,  flew. 

"It's  Jerry — Jerry  Dell.     Cousin — what  madness.     What — " 

"No,  Keziah,"  he  laughed  at  her  face  of  dismay,  "not  Jerry 
Dell — but  Gervaise  Ross  of  Ardelimar — my  grandson — my 
heir.  The  heir  of  Cloudesley.  But,"  he  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  the  gleaming  figure  at  the  dim  altar,  "what  have  you 
here?  A  wedding.  Who — Gervaise — "  he  caught  the  other's 
arm,  "this — "  He  had  no  time  to  finish,  for  Jerry  was  across 
the  chapel  and  on  the  altar  steps. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  cried  hoarsely.     "Not— not— " 

"No,  no,  Jerry,"  Paul  answered  quickly.  "Do  not  mistrust 
her." 

He  lifted  the  veil  slowly  from  the  gleaming  figure  by  his 
side — slowly — and  a  beam  of  sunlight  fell  straight  on  the 
sparkling  flushed  face,  lifted  proudly  to  the  dark  one  above 
her. 

"Betty!"  cried  Jerry,  falling  back. 

"Betty!"  echoed  my  Lady  Karen,  and  "Oh,  Betty— how 
could  you — how  could  you !"  from  my  Lady  Kezzy. 

The  earl  strode  forward.  "Chubbe's  niece — "  he  laughed. 
"So,  sister — in  spite  of  all  your  little  plot — "  but  again  an  in- 
terruption stopped  him.  Hot,  breathless,  hustling  each  other 
in  their  haste,  pushing  aside  footmen  at  the  door,  panting, 
almost  exhausted,  came  Mrs.  Chubbe,  her  husband  behind 
her. 

"Oh,  my  ladies — my  ladies — am  I  in  time?  They're  not 
gone — oh,  say  they're  not  gone." 

"Martha — "  Lady  Karen's  tone  was  stern  and  angry,  "did 
you  know  of  this — this — base — wicked — deceit?" 

"Yes,  my  lady — that  is — no,  I  mean — no,  and  yes.  Oh,  my 
ladies,"  she  stopped  to  get  breath,  "give  me  time — I  can  ex- 
plain all — everything."  Lady  Karen  turned  from  her  con- 
temptuously. The  farmer  stood  sheepishly  by,  saying  noth- 


402  When  Pan  Pipes 

ing,  while  his  wife  fanned  herself  with  a  small  parcel  she 
carried  and  collected  her  wits. 

"My  ladies,"  she  burst  out  at  length,  "my  lord — there's 
a-something  I  must  tell;  it's  been  waitin'  to  be  told  for  nigh 
upon  twenty  years,  an'  now  the  time's  come.  Our  Betty — 
She  paused,  half  triumphant  at  the  effect  of  a  certain  tone 
in  the  words.  Lady  Karen  had  half  turned  again;  her  sister 
crept  nearer.  Paul  and  Betty,  clasping  each  other's  hands, 
listened  eagerly;  even  my  lord  and  the  black  figure  behind 
him  were  seemingly  interested. 

"My  ladies,  long  ago,  one  snowy  night,  just  such  a  one  as 
this  might  be,  a  little  child  was  left  upon  our  doorstep,  a  little, 
crying  thing,  wantin'  sadly  a  mother's  love  an*  care.  We  took 
it,  me  an'  Matthew,  an'  Matthew,  he  said,  keep  it,  Martha — • 
leastways,  if  he  didn't  exactly  say  it,  he  meant  it — an'  we've 
kept  her,  my  ladies — an'  brought  her  up — not  as  our  own — 
but — as — a — lady  's  far's  we  could,  in  our  humble  way." 
Lady  Karen  spoke  scornfully. 

"It  is  no  matter,  Martha,  how  you  brought  her  up.  She 
may  be  the  daughter  of  low  parents,  or — more  likely — withr 
out  parents  at  all." 

"Or  maybe,  my  lady,  her  mother  may  have  been  a  lady — 
maybe,  a  lady  who  left  her  home — an' — an' — her  family — an' 
— all  her  riches  and  grandeur — for — "  her  voice  dropped  low 
— there  was  a  silence — "for — love."  My  lady  stepped  for- 
ward, laying  her  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Martha?  Speak  out.  Oh — my  God." 
Mrs.  Chubbe  wrung  her  hands. 

"Oh,  my  lady,"  she  cried,  with  a  half  sob,  "don't  you  un- 
derstand? See — "  She  slipped  the  paper  from  the  parcel, 
and  a  long  soft  sash  fell  in  rich  folds.  Lady  Karen  gasped; 
her  sister  sprang  forward  and  clutched  at  the  silken  fringe. 

"Sister — sister — it's  hers — Mima's — don't  you  remember? 
We  both  had  them;  though  I  was  older  than  she,  and  won- 
dered if  I  ought  to  wear  it.  Oh,  Karen— Martha— "  She 


The  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own        403 

was  sobbing  quietly,  hugging  the  ribbon,  kissing  it,  and  her 
tears  falling  stained  the  fresh  colours. 

"Martha,  is  this  true?  Where  did  you  get  it?"  asked  Lady 
Karen. 

"My  lady,  it  was  with  her,  an'  a  letter,"  the  words  were 
mingled  with  sobs.  "When  my  dear  lady  married — I  helped 
her.  I — oh,  my  ladies,  forgive  me  for  sayin'  it — but  when — 
she  was  in  poverty — an'  too  proud — to  ask  for  help — from 
her — own — she  came  to — me;  an'  when  her  husband — poor 
gentleman — died — I  helped  her  again;  an'  when  she — "  The 
sobs  came  thick  and  fast — there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the 
little  chapel;  even  the  earl  had  turned  away.  "When  she — 
knew — she  was  dyin',  she  sent  to  me.  'Martha,'  she  says, 
'if  it's  a  girl — oh,  take  her — don't  let  her  be  spared  the  joy 
an'  sorrow  o'  life — let  her  taste  it  as  I  have  done ;  it  is  right.' 
An'  my  ladies,  when — I  heard  that  little  whinin'  cry  at  my 
door — I  knew — she — had — left  her  child — an' — gone  her  way 
— to  die  alone." 

There  was  a  silence,  only  broken  by  low  sobbing.  The 
farmer's  wife  was  the  first  to  recover. 

"When  she  got  bigger,  I  was  minded  to  tell  you,  my  lady, 
an' — then  we  heard — "  she  paused,  glancing  at  the  earl,  "that 
— that — my  Lady  Mary — was  to  go  to  a  convent — "  the  voice 
grew  stronger,  "that  she  was  to  take  all  her  youth,  an'  her 
pretty  ways,  an'  her  bonnie  face,  to  where  they  would  fade, 
unloved.  An' — an' — so — my  lord,"  she  curtseyed,  "an'  my 
ladies — I  took  it  upon  myself  to  keep  her ;  an'  when  I  saw  the 
young  count  so  fond  o'  her,  I  knew  'twould  all  come  right — an' 
so — I  waited.  This  mornin'  Betty  sent  me  a  letter  to  say  she 
was  marry  in'  him  at  half -past  eleven,  but  'twas  earlier,  my 
ladies — an'  so  I'm  late." 

She  stopped  and  wiped  her  hot,  tearful  face;  Lady  Karen 
stepped  to  her. 

"Martha — you've  done  right;  you  were  always  wise,  my 
dear,  trusty  friend — how  can  we  thank  you  for  doing  our 


404  When  Pan  Pipes 

duty?  Ah,  me,  our  little  Mima."  But  Lady  Kezzy,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  stepped  to  the  altar,  and  drawing  Betty 
down,  kissed  her  fondly,  then  led  her  to  her  sister. 

"You  know,  sister,  I  always  said  Betty  and  Jerry  were  the 
nicest  children  I  knew."  And  in  spite  of  all,  a  little  laugh 
ran  round,  clearing  the  atmosphere. 

Lady  Karen  gathered  the  dazed  girl  to  her;  even  Mary, 
dear  as  she  was,  was  not  quite  the  same  as  the  child  of  the 
loved  young  sister  driven  from  home  so  long  ago.  And  my 
lord,  too,  condescended  to  step  forward;  his  face  was  softer, 
the  grim  lines  relaxed  as  he  took  Betty  from  his  sister,  and 
stooping,  kissed  her  gently,  while  he  extended  his  hand  to 
the  innkeeper's  wife. 

"And  you  too,  Chubbe,  have  known  nothing  all  these  years ; 
your  wife  has  kept  the  secret  well."  The  farmer  scratched 
his  head. 

"Well,  my  lord,  to  tell  the  truth — I've — so  to  speak — known 
it— that  is,  I—" 

"You've  known  it,  master,"  interrupted  his  wife;  "why,  I 
never  told." 

"Nay,  missus — but  there's  more  ways  of  knowing  a  thing 
than  words."  And  Mrs.  Chubbe  gazed  admiringly  at  her 
husband,  ejaculating  her  favourite,  "Dck — dck — to  think  on 
it."  But  now,  as  the  tension  slackened,  Jerry  found  words. 

"Grandfather — where  is  she — Mary  ?"  The  earl  moved  for- 
ward, frowning. 

"You  are  bold,  young  man — even  if  this  tale  is  true."  His 
cousin  answered. 

"It  is  true,  Edward.  Not  only  this — but — we  have  come 
to  fetch  your  daughter.  The  fact  is,  she  is  my  grandson's 
wife." 

"His  wife !"  the  words  burst  from  him,  falling  like  a  thun- 
derbolt on  the  rest  of  the  party. 

"His  wife !"  repeated  my  lord  in  a  dazed  voice.  But  Betty 
sprang  forward. 

"Oh,  let  me  fetch  her.     I  know  where  she  is." 


The  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own        405 

The  silence  was  a  tacit  consent.  Up  the  stairs  she  sped, 
nearly  knocking  over  the  count,  who,  hearing  that  great  things 
were  afoot,  was  on  his  way  to  the  chapel,  over  the  great  square 
landings,  into  the  room,  and  opening  the  cupboard  door, 
dragged  Mary  out. 

"Oh,  come — come  quickly,"  she  cried,  laughing  hysterically ; 
"such  wonderful  things  have  happened ;  Jerry's  downstairs — 
and  a  gentleman,  who  says  he's  his  grandson — and  it's  all  right 
— and — take  off  your  horrid  dress."  Her  quick  fingers  were 
already  at  work  on  her  own.  "Off  with  it,  Mary.  Yes,  I  can 
call  you  Mary  now,  for  you're  my  own — own  cousin,  and — " 
She  slipped  out  of  the  glittering  robe,  and  picking  it  up  threw 
it  over  Mary's  head.  "I'll  be  your  maid,  darling,  for  the  last 
time." 

She  pushed  her  into  a  chair,  and  hurriedly  began  to  brush 
and  do  up  the  golden  hair,  Mary  putting  dazed  questions, 
listening  to  the  chattering  voice,  pouring  out  the  tale  as  only 
Betty's  voice  could  do. 

"There — now  you're  finished — oh,  the  lovely,  lovely  dress; 
it's  like  a  fairy  tale — the  goose-girl  borrows  the  princess'  sil- 
ver robe.  And  now,  lend  me  one  of  yours — the  best." 

Hastily  ransacking  the  big  oak  wardrobe,  she  drew  out  a 
gleaming  satin  robe,  decked  herself  in  it,  then,  throwing  the 
veil  over  Mary's  head,  she  opened  the  door,  and  the  two 
girls  sped  along,  hand  in  hand.  Servants,  mysteriously  ac- 
quainted with  the  news,  had  gathered  to  see  them  pass,  curt- 
seying low;  footmen  flung  open  doors  as,  with  a  sudden 
thought,  Betty  turned  into  the  garden,  and  taking  the  path 
to  the  chapel,  drew  up  at  the  main  entrance. 

The  state  carriages  stood  there — the  second  one  by  this 
time  had  discharged  its  occupants — and  as  the  two  girls  ap- 
peared at  the  entrance,  by  some  strange  instinct,  the  earl  de- 
tached himself  from  a  little  crowd,  and  taking  his  daughter 
from  Betty,  drew  her  into  his  arms,  kissing  her  fondly. 

"Never  to  part  again,  Mary,  my  dear  daughter,  till  I  give 
you  to  another."  Then,  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  he  led 


406  When  Pan  Pipes 

her  up  the  aisle,  dazed  and  bewildered,  to  the  altar  steps. 

With  a  choking  cry  she  ran  forward,  slipped,  and  was  caught 
up  in  a  pair  of  strong  arms. 

"Beloved — beloved — I've  come  to  you-*- you  are  mine — mine 
— for  ever  and  ever." 

And  then,  by  some  common  impulse,  the  little  crowd  gath- 
ered round  them.  Father  Andrew,  captured  and  brought 
back,  stood  before  them,  and  for  the  second  time  that  morn- 
ing said  the  beautiful  words  of  the  wedding  service. 

Again  it  was  over.  As  they  turned  to  leave  the  altar  a  sea 
of  faces  greeted  them.  How  the  news  had  spread  only  those 
who  spread  it  could  tell,  but  all  Cloudesley  had  somehow  got 
there,  and  not  only  got  there,  but  had  donned  its  best  bib  and 
tucker;  and  when  they  left  the  church  and  stepped  into  the 
gorgeous  carriage  which  was  to  take  them  to  the  Hall,  they 
were  met  with  a  roar  of  cheering,  such  handgrips  that  shamed 
even  Jerry's,  and  the  crowd  which  escorted  them  was  Cloudes- 
ley itself. 

And  so,  with  pomp  and  ceremony,  with  pride  and  rejoicing, 
he  brought  his  princess  home — home  to  his  heritage,  his  arms 
and  his  heart. 

That  afternoon  another  state  procession  wended  its  way 
from  the  Hall,  and  perhaps  the  crowd  which  followed  it  was 
even  greater  than  the  first,  for  the  innkeeper  was  known  for 
miles  around,  and  his  niece,  for  her  own  sake  as  well  as  his, 
was  loved  by  all.  But  the  real  feast  was  on  Christmas  Day, 
when  every  villager  would  dine  at  the  Hall. 

Love  making  is  contagious.  That  evening,  my  Lady  Kezzy, 
sitting  alone,  was  joined  by  the  count.  He  came  towards  her 
as  though  for  a  purpose. 

"Kezzy,"  he  whispered,  "long  ago,  I  thought  you  loved 
your  cousin — Edward  told  me.  You  gave  me  no  encourage- 
ment— and  I,  thinking  it  hopeless,  turned  from  my  home 
and  married  another.  Afterwards  I  wondered;  to-day,  I 
asked  your  cousin — and  he  told  me — to  come  to  you.  For 


The  Swineherd  Comes  to  His  Own        407 

Kezzy,  we  are  no  longer  young ;  my  son  is  gone  from  me,  and 
I  am  lonely.  Is  it  too  late  for  forgiveness?  Will  you  come 
to  me — even  now?" 

And  my  Lady  Kezzy,  for  one  brief  second  lifted  her  eyes, 
then,  casting  them  modestly  down,  whispered  her  answer. 

The  Yule  log  burned  low;  the  guests,  hastily  summoned, 
had  dispersed.  My  Lady  Karen  and  her  brother  sat  together 
in  the  small  oak  chamber,  leaving  the  great  wide  drawing-room 
to  the  lovers.  Lady  Kezzy  and  the  count,  together  at  last, 
were  silent  in  their  happiness.  No  brilliant  future  lay  before 
them;  only  the  gentle  merging  of  two  lives  into  one,  only 
peaceful  happiness  in  the  years  still  left. 

But  for  those  young  lives,  emerging  from  clouds  and  dark- 
ness, the  broad  highway,  sunflecked,  flower-strewn,  unrolled 
itself  before  them,  stretching  on  and  on  to  the  eternal  blue. 

Jerry  rose,  and  opening  the  wide  door,  stepped  on  to  the 
terrace,  and  wrapping  Mary  in  a  shawl,  drew  her  with  him. 
Down  the  wide  marble  steps,  across  the  glittering,  frost- 
speared  lawns,  past  the  chapel,  and  out  through  the  massive 
gates  to  the  little  sleeping  village.  Fair  shone  the  Christ- 
mas moon,  glimmered  the  snow  on  low  thatches ;  frost  sparkled 
merrily  on  hedges,  on  darkly  gleaming  windows,  and  even 
under  Mary's  light  footsteps  the  ground  crackled  and  laughed. 

They  turned  through  a  little  gate  into  a  deeper  silence,  by 
by-paths,  till  they  reached  the  corner  beneath  Church  Clock, 
and  drawing  her  close,  he  gazed  down  at  the  widow's  grave. 

"Ah,  Jerry,"  she  whispered,  "if  we  had  but  known — all 
those  years,  so  near — and  yet  so  far  apart."  He  looked  into 
her  deep  eyes,  his  square  brown  face  filled  with  the  light  of 
a  great  love. 

"It  was  better,  dear  love;  else  how  should  I  have  found 
strength  and  patience  to  win — love?" 

"And  without  your  strength,"  she  whispered,  her  face  against 
his,  "how  should  I  have  found  courage  to  win  through — 
hatred?" 


408  When  Pan  Pipes 

They  moved  on — to  another  mound.  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  that  a  corner  of  the  curtain  was  lifted,  so  near  was 
the  gentle  voice,  so  clear  the  words. 

"Well  done,  Jerry  boy — -work — love — and  some  day  you  too 
will  pass  behind  the  curtain  and  find  that  love  lives  for  ever." 

On — through  the  haunted  lane,  past  the  witch's  cottage, 
where  a  light  burned  behind  the  crimson  blinds,  and  Mar- 
gery's shadow  moved  across  them.  On — to  the  solemn  snow- 
clad  woods.  Loneliness,  peeping  through  the  branches,  fled 
with  a  lilting  laugh — her  place  was  gone. 

Church  Clock  struck  twelve.  The  two  friendly  faces 
watched  them  go.  On  the  Moon's  brilliant  visage  a  little 
cloud  rested. 

"Church  Clock,  Church  Clock,"  he  cried,  "will  this,  too, 
pass?"  And  Church  Clock  answered  loud  and  clear — 

"Nay,  friend — true  love  never  passes — only  it  grows  deeper, 
stronger — till  it  joins  the  eternal  blue."  And  the  little  cloud 
drifted  from  the  shining  face. 

"Listen,  dearest,"  said  Jerry.  "It  seems  as  though  the  earth 
were  rejoicing  with  us.  There's  music  in  the  air — in  the  trees 
— everywhere." 

And  from  deep  glens,  from  moonlit  glades,  from  sky  and 
sea  and  woodland,  came  Pan's  piping,  and  the  song  he  sang 
that  night  was  the  song  of  life — of  love — of  work  and  happi- 
ness. Grave,  solemn,  yet  with  a  tripping  May-day  measure, 
a  lightsome  airy  dance  for  fairy  feet.  Listening,  they  knew 
it  came  from  their  own  hearts — Nature  but  echoed  it.  He 
lifted  her  to  him,  clasping  her  close  and  long,  and  Church 
Clock  struck  the  first  hour  of  a  new  day. 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRA 


A     000129123     6 


